


written in the scars (of our hearts)

by Mimi (SillyMimi)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 29,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SillyMimi/pseuds/Mimi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Right from the start, you were a thief, you stole my heart, and I, your willing victim. </i><br/> </p><p><i>If I fall for you, I'll never recover. If I fall for you, I'll never be the same.</i><br/> </p><p> </p><p>Thirty prompts for Eames and Arthur, not necessarily updated every day. I've changed some of the prompts that I wasn't familiar with or felt like didn't fit with the rest of the prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. holding hands

**Author's Note:**

> Summary lyrics from "Just Give Me a Reason" by Pink and "Love Somebody" by Maroon 5. Title also from Just Give Me a Reason.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur doesn't mind that Eames is an opportunistic hand-holder.

At once, Arthur wakes from a timed dream with the PASIV, blinking and sitting up to remove the cannula from his arm. He gets to his feet to gather up the clear tubing, but a low rumble from behind him has him turning to face it.

Eames hasn't left his lounge chair, his own tubing still attached to his arm. He smiles languidly and drawls, "Aren't you going to help me up, darling?"

Arthur considers ignoring him, but Eames's lazy smile beckons him over. "You're spoiled," he deadpans, turning to go to him. Arthur sits down on the lounge chair at Eames's side, pulling his arm into his lap. "I hook you up _one time_ , and all of a sudden you can't do anything on your own, right?"

Eames smile widens into a full shameless grin. "But you're so gentle with me," he says, and just for that, Arthur pinches him as he removes the cannula. Eames flinches, and Arthur smirks.

"Oops," he says without feeling, then he turns to wind the tubing up and place it securely inside the PASIV.

When Arthur turns back, Eames is jutting his lower lip at him in a pout. It looks almost convincing, except for the wrinkle on the corner of his mouth where he's trying not to smile.

Arthur snorts air out of his nose and holds out his hand to help Eames up. "Come on," he says softly, privately, and Eames drops the face at once, recognizing the affectionate tone used only for him.

Eames takes his offered hand and pulls himself up, and although Arthur intends to let go, Eames hangs on with a teasing smile.

Instinctively, Arthur glances around them, but the rest of the team left for lunch before they went under. Turning back to Eames, Arthur smiles and intertwines their fingers.

"Hungry?" he asks, and Eames's mouth splits into a grin.

"Only if you're buying."

Arthur stifles a laugh and leads him outside, tightening his hold on Eames's hand as he locks the warehouse door behind them. Then, they walk down the sidewalk at the same leisurely pace, Eames stroking the back of his hand with his thumb.


	2. cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is a little hurt that Arthur only gets cuddly after a mind-blowing orgasm.

Eames tightens his hold on Arthur's sharp, sweat-slick hips, sinking his cock into Arthur's stretched hole over and over again. Eames's grunts and the wet _slap, slap_ of his thighs meeting the cheeks of Arthur's arse fill the room. Arthur's got his head buried in his arms, groaning quietly into a pillow, his fingers clenched in the sheets.

Right at the edge, his balls tight, Eames gasps hoarsely as Arthur's heat clenches around him, and he barely hears Arthur's strained sounds, like he's gritting his teeth through his orgasm. Tremors run along Arthur's body and it's the subtle dip of his spine towards the bed, his desperate moans as he rides the waves of his orgasm, that has Eames coming.

Eames drapes himself over Arthur's back, winding an arm around his middle as he thrusts and thrusts, spending himself with shameless, open-mouthed moans. He comes down slowly, pulling out and tying off the condom while Arthur shivers under him. Climbing off the bed, he tosses the used condom in the waste bin and stretches his arms in front of him.

"Mm," Arthur says from the bed, and Eames can hear the smile in his voice, "can you open a window?"

Facing him, Eames grins, his cheeks aching from it. "Anything for you," he says, his voice rough, and he slides open the window beside the bed. "Do you want some pants?" he asks, going to rummage through their dresser drawers.

"You mean _pants_ -pants or underwear?"

Eames gives him a look but can't stop himself from smiling. "Underwear, you twat," he says good-naturedly.

Arthur grins widely, his eyes crinkling up and his dimples pressing into his cheeks, and Eames's knees may or may not give out. "Just come back to bed," Arthur says plaintively, rolling onto his side and patting the open space beside him. Nude and glistening with sweat, a pleased smile pulling at his mouth, Arthur's like a siren call.

Abandoning the wardrobe, Eames returns to their bed without pants for either of them, getting comfortable on his back and pulling Arthur against his side. Arthur presses close, reaching up and dragging his fingers over Eames's chest, curling his fingers in his chest hair.

Arthur hums in his throat and props his head on Eames's shoulder, and Eames winds an arm around his waist, stroking the bony ridge of Arthur's hip. "Darling," he says, musing, "why are you only cuddly after mind-blowing sex?"

In retrospect, this is his first mistake.

At once, he feels Arthur go from malleable and soft to rigid. "What do you mean?" he asks, his voice level, but it's that _forced_ calm Arthur only gets when he's upset.

Eames pauses before treading lightly. "Well," he says, extending the word, "you're not... _exactly_ the most, ah, affectionate lover."

Arthur lifts his head, and excepting his messy sex hair and the flush on his cheeks, he looks absolutely as if Eames had not been railing him into the mattress just moments ago. "I'm affectionate," Arthur says matter of factly, and, oh no, he's getting defensive.

"You are," Eames agrees, stroking his hair, "only, you know... not as much. And there's nothing wrong with that. I was only curious why."

Slowly, Arthur lowers his head back to Eames's shoulder, sliding his fingers through Eames's chest hair. "I guess I only do it when I'm completely at ease," he says tightly, "and usually that's when I'm fucked out." He pauses, tracing the dark lines of ink on Eames's chest. "Sometimes I get cuddly on the couch," he says, guarded. "It's not just after sex."

Just yesterday afternoon, Eames spread his arm out as an invitation, and Arthur sat beside him on their couch, laying his back along Eames's side and folding Eames's tattooed arm over his chest. They watched the telly like that for nearly three hours, Arthur dropping kisses on his knuckles and Eames nuzzling the curls at the nape of his neck.

Now, Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head and says, "You're so right, love, I'm sorry."

Arthur snorts air out of his nose. "Are you placating me?"

"My sweet, darling Arthur, whatever makes you say that?"

Arthur lifts his head if only to give him his sassiest face, and Eames pecks him on the cheek. "I'm only teasing," he says gently, and Arthur curls back against him.

"Good."

Eames laughs and reaches up, pulling his fingers through Arthur's loose curls. "I suppose I'll have to discover new and innovative ways to relax you," he sighs, as if it's a great task, "because I adore cuddling with you."

Arthur huffs a laugh. "Saying 'new' and 'innovative' in the same sentence is redundant." He sounds like he's smiling again, so Eames does a frightening impression of the put-off little noise Arthur makes when he's frustrated.

"Well, I don't recall asking the peanut gallery, Arthur."

Eames tilts his head to see Arthur's face, and he's smiling against Eames's chest, dimples and all. With a grin, Eames settles into their bed and shuts his eyes, content.


	3. gaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames does laundry, and Arthur sits on his arse playing assassin games in his bloody underwear.

A plastic basket tucked under one arm, Eames fills it with the soiled laundry from their bedroom and the bathroom.

He returns to the living room, where Arthur sits in the middle of the couch with a PlayStation 3 controller in his hands. Arthur hits the pause button to wipe his palms on his flannel pajama pants, the red tartan pattern stark against the beige sofa. "Oh," he says, adjusting his plain black tee as Eames passes him, "you doing laundry?"

"Yes," Eames says, opening two folding doors to reveal the washer and dryer, "if you need something washed, be a love and bring it here?"

He props open the washing machine door and holds the basket against the washer with his hip, dropping dark-colored clothes in the machine. Arthur appears at his side, untying the drawstring of his pants and hitching them down just under his hips. "How 'bout these?" he asks, a smirk pulling at one side of his mouth.

Eames immediately sets the basket on top of the dryer and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his pajama pants. "Why, let me help you out of those, darling," he purrs, tugging Arthur's pants down along his thighs, stroking his hands over the skin as he reveals it. He kneels in front of Arthur and peppers open-mouthed kisses along his inner thighs and knees, all the way down to his calves and the tops of his feet.

"Don't kiss my _feet_ , Christ," Arthur says above him, shifting awkwardly.

Planting two more kisses atop his feet to spite him, Eames says warmly, "But I love all of you, even your feet." He guides Arthur out of his pants and gathers them in the crook of one arm, placing a hand on the washing machine to help himself up.

"Doesn't mean you need to kiss 'em," Arthur mutters, pulling his shirt over his head and handing it over. The tips of his ears look more red than before as he returns to the living room in only his gray boxer-briefs.

Smiling, Eames dribbles laundry detergent over their clothing and shuts the top door, turning the dial for dark colors. Once the water's running, Eames returns to the living room, dropping down on the sofa beside Arthur. Eames pats his bare thigh, sliding the tip of his index finger under the fabric of Arthur's underwear with an appreciative hum.

"What is it today?" Eames asks, watching the hooded character on their television expertly navigate through a forest, leaping from branch to branch.

Leaning forward to balance his elbows on his knees, Arthur says, "Assassin's Creed." His hooded character leaps from the top of a tree to assault an unsuspecting deer, and Eames makes a face.

"Wait," he says, and he pulls at Arthur's shoulder, making him sit back, "first of all, sit back; you're going to hurt yourself." He slides an arm over Arthur's shoulders and pulls him close, gesturing to the telly with one hand. "Secondly, I don't remember this forest. I thought you're supposed to be in Renaissance Italy?"

Arthur shakes his head, still watching the screen as he says, "No, you're thinking of the second one. This is the third one, it's about the American Revolution. The founding fathers are in it and stuff."

Before Eames can start a thrilling and sexually-charged back-and-forth about the those rebellious Americans and their violent break-up with Britain, Arthur sits up suddenly. " _Hell_ no," he mutters, gripping his controller more tightly. "Not today, assholes."

Arthur immediately sends his assassin character in another direction, making him whistle for a horse that comes out of bloody nowhere. Eames blinks and asks, "What, what is it?"

"Fucking _bandits_ are attacking my fucking _caravan_."

Eames can't fight a grin as he says, "Your bloody _what_?"

Quickly turning his head to narrow his eyes at him before looking back at the television, Arthur says tightly, "It's a--" He huffs in his struggle to explain. "--like a trading caravan. I have a trading _empire_ , and these dickheads--"

Laughing, Eames interrupts to ask, "Are you an assassin or a bloody trader?"

"Both," Arthur says, and his hooded character launches himself into a battle with red coats attacking two covered wagons. "I kill people then make a killing on tradeable goods." He cracks a dimpled, sideways grin, and Eames laughs again, throwing his head back with it.

"What a perfect game for you, darling," he says a moment later, once he catches his breath. He watches Arthur absolutely decimate his enemies and proudly pulls him closer, kissing his temple.


	4. on a date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At restaurants, Eames insists on taking the seat facing every exit. Arthur lets him.

"Just the two of you?"

Arthur smiles at the hostess and says, "Yes, please."

She grabs two menus and says brightly, "This way," before leading them deeper into the restaurant. Eames walks right behind him, one large hand at the small of his back to guide him forward.

The hostess brings them to a small couple's booth near the corner of the restaurant, and Eames carefully maneuvers Arthur into the closest seat before settling into the other. They both thank her before she goes, and Arthur pulls the menu closer to himself, balancing his arms on the table. 

"You gonna have a drink?" he asks, and when he doesn't get a reply, he glances up.

His hands clasped in front of him, Eames is looking all around them, and Arthur briefly follows his gaze to see all the 'exit' signs in the room are visible from Eames's seat.

Arthur raises his eyebrows and says quietly, "No one would go through the trouble of killing everyone here just to get to us."

Eames picks up his menu, superficially looking it over as he says tersely, "Y'never know."

Watching him a moment, Arthur reaches over to touch his hand and hold it, even as the server takes their orders. He lets go only when their food arrives, but even then, he brushes his knee against Eames's under the table until the tense line of Eames's shoulders relaxes.


	5. kissing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thousand sweet kisses.

Arthur wakes with soft, warm lips against his, and he kisses back with a drowsy smile, curling closer to Eames.

"Good morning, darling," Eames says softly, pulling their bedsheets up around them, cocooning them together.

"Morning," Arthur against his plush mouth, reaching up to wind his arms around Eames's neck.

*

Sitting at his work station in a vacant building, Arthur glances between the laptop on the desk to his right and the moleskin in front of him, copying information on the screen to paper.

All of a sudden, his computer chair is spun around and pushed back against the edge of the desk, and Arthur startles, grabbing the arms of the chair and setting wild eyes on--

"Eames," he hisses, "what the hell?"

The forger smirks at him, placing his hands on the desktop to cage him in between his tattooed arms. "I need something, Arthur," Eames says somehow seriously, despite his toothy grin, and he props one knee on the seat of Arthur's chair, between his legs.

Settling back, Arthur raises his eyebrows, subtly looking around them but seeing no one else. "And what's that?" he asks in a hush, looking back at Eames. 'Me?' he doesn't say, wondering how predictable this man he loves can be.

Slowly, Eames leans forward, his mouth a breath away from Arthur's as he says, "Your lips on mine, darling."

Arthur smiles, actually nearly grins, when Eames closes the distance between their mouths, kissing slow and sensual. Framing his face with his hands, Arthur arches into him and tilts his head into the kiss.

*

Two levels deep with sedation, projections around every corner, Arthur kneels down beside Eames and hooks him up to the PASIV.

"Darling," Eames says softly, too quietly for the rest of the team to hear, and he touches Arthur's hand to slow him.

Pausing, Arthur doesn't even look around himself before taking Eames's hand in his and intertwining their fingers.

Eames reaches up and touches his cheek, stroking his thumb over the bone. "Be back--" he starts.

"Before the kick, I know," Arthur says, his throat tight.

Eames exhales through his nose, quietly searching Arthur's face, then he sits up, moving his hand from Arthur's cheek to the back of his neck. Arthur inclines his head until their mouths meet, and he clenches his fingers in Eames's shirt.

They kiss slow and sure at first, moving together, then Eames curls his fingers in the hair at the nape of Arthur's neck and tips his head into their kiss. Arthur makes a soft noise in his throat, his mouth trembling against Eames's.

"Arthur," someone says behind him, and Arthur tightens his hold on Eames, who does the same. Someone clears their throat.

At last, they break apart, breathless, and Eames slowly lies back down. Setting his jaw, Arthur finishes hooking him up, then rises and goes to the PASIV. Just before sending them under, Eames locks eyes with him and smiles, if not with an ounce of fear.

*

Green and red peppers and onions sizzle in a large pan atop the stove, and Arthur moves the vegetables constantly to keep them from burning.

"Mm," Eames purrs from behind him, and he sidles up to Arthur's back, winding his arms around his waist, "what's for dinner?"

Arthur smiles and says, "Chicken fajitas."

Eames exaggerates a delighted gasp and asks, "With all of the fixings as well?"

"There's salsa and guacamole in the fridge."

Eames grins against his neck and pulls him closer. "All homemade, my love?" he asks.

Arthur smirks and boasts, "Everything but the tortillas."

Squeezing him more tightly, Eames plants a wet kiss on his cheek, a grin splitting his face. "You're a fucking treasure," he says gleefully, and he showers the side Arthur's face with quick little kisses.

Laughing, Arthur turns his head to catch Eames's mouth with his, their teeth clicking when he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary lyrics from I'll Cover You, from RENT.


	6. wearing each other's clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After sex, Arthur steps over his own discarded clothing and goes straight for Eames's button-ups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little size kink? Maybe?

Still flushed and fairly breathless, Arthur pulls himself up from their bed and immediately picks up Eames's shirt from the floor. It's soft linen and moss green, one of Arthur's favorites. The shirt hangs too big on Arthur, the lines of the shoulders circling his upper arms, but it's warm and smells like Eames.

Shrugging the shirt on and fastening a couple buttons, Arthur slides his fingers along Eames's bare calf and ankle before heading leisurely into the bathroom to clean himself up with a wet washcloth. Feeling fresh and dry, he goes down the hall into the kitchen.

Taking a glass from their cupboard, he feels a twinge in his back as he stretches up, and he inhales sharply through his teeth, holding the small of his back with his free hand.

"All right, love?" Eames asks from somewhere behind him, and Arthur faces him just as he comes close. In nothing but striped boxers and black socks, Eames places his hand over Arthur's, craddling his back. "Was I too eager?" he asks, an apologetic smile lifting his mouth.

Arthur waves him away and says with a shrug, "I'm fine. Just-- Can you get us some water?" He clasps one hand on Eames's shoulder for support.

"Of course," Eames says gently, possibly placating, and he takes a tall glass from the cupboard, quickly filling it with filtered water from the sink. "Here," he says, putting the glass in Arthur's hands, "drink up."

Arthur takes the water with quiet thanks and sips, and Eames winds an arm around his waist, carefully digging his fingers into the small of Arthur's back.

Groaning, Arthur arches into him and sighs, "Thank you."

Eames pecks him on the cheek, humming low in his throat, and after a pause, he asks with a grin, "You like that shirt, do you?"

Snorting air out of his nose, Arthur says flatly, "It's comfortable."

Laughing, Eames swipes the glass from his hand and takes a few long swigs. Water dribbles down his chin onto his bare chest, and Arthur chases the wet trails with his fingertips.

"And it smells like you," he continues, soft and wistful. "Like your body wash and that cologne I bought you."

Eames makes a quiet, undeniably happy sound, his smile widening. "You like the way I smell?" he echoes, teasing. " _Darling_ , you're absolutely precious." He kisses Arthur on the cheek, where a dimple would be if Arthur wasn't trying so hard not to smile.

"Shut up," he says harmlessly, stealing the glass back and taking a long drink. Once finished, he sets it on the counter, his gaze drifting to the floor where Eames is shifting his weight from foot to foot. Arthur tilts his head and actually laughs, a real laugh and not just a burst of air out of his nose.

"Are those my socks?" he asks, gesturing to Eames's feet with a messy motion of his hand.

Eames ducks his head, perhaps from embarrassment, but then Arthur sees the grin splitting his face. "Yes," Eames says finally, meeting Arthur's eyes, "you steal my shirts, I steal your socks. They're the only thing of yours that actually fit my more masculine form." He puffs out his chest with a toothy grin, and Arthur lightly smacks him right on the sternum. 

"Asshole," he says mildly, smiling, "you're not that much bigger than me. I could bulk up if I wanted to. Remember that job in Jersey?"

Without any subtlety, Eames licks his lips and lowers his voice. "How could I forget," he says, moving his hands along Arthur's arms. "You did look good, but I like you like this." He moves his hands down the shirt Arthur grabbed, deftly undoing the buttons. "In fact, I love being bigger than you." Without any warning, Eames stoops down and hooks his arms under Arthur's butt, lifting him off the ground.

Arthur wraps his legs around Eames's waist without being prompted, and he flashes Eames a sideways smirk. "Well," he says, roughening his voice and clutching Eames's upper arms, "that makes two of us."

Their mouths meet like two hurricane forces, Eames's shirt and Arthur's socks forgotten on the hardwood flooring like debris.


	7. shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why the bloody fuck did Arthur drag him along to IKEA if he was going to be a controlling little twat?

His hands in his pockets, Eames trails after Arthur, picking up the pace to fall in step beside him. They've passed so many bedrooms and bathrooms and kitchens and living rooms, Eames can't even recall the reason they came here. He slings an arm around Arthur's waist and pulls him close, their hips bumping.

"What's the chance of us stopping by the bedroom section, darling?" he asks in a husky voice, turning his head to leave a kiss under Arthur's ear. "I would love to test out each and every one of those beds with you." Eames moves his hand lower, ghosting it over the crest of Arthur's pert little arse.

Arthur makes a disapproving sound in his throat, pursing one side of his mouth and glancing around the store. "I dunno," he says, entirely too serious, as if he hadn't even heard Eames. "I wanna look at the coffee tables, remember?"

Forcing his mouth up in a smile, Eames says, "Of course, how could I forget." He sounds faraway even to himself as he slides his hand away and falls back behind Arthur, tucking his hands in the pockets of his trousers, watching the furniture as it passes them.

While Arthur peruses coffee tables, Eames wanders to a sofa and plops himself in the middle of it. Arthur gets on one knee beside a wood table, glass panels set into the surface of it, and he shakes it back and forth, like he expects it to fall apart. Eames watches him with barely an ounce of interest, and he reaches for the soft, patterned pillow beside him, holding it up.

"Wouldn't this look lovely in the living room, Arthur?" he asks, peeking around the pillow to gauge Arthur's reaction, who glances up just long enough to pull a face, wrinkling his nose and grimacing.

"God, Eames," he says, "no, it's tacky." He says it like Eames should know that that or something.

Looking at the pillow, Eames frowns and shifts, trying a more pitiful tone. "Why do you say that?" he says quietly, exaggerating his lower lip in a pout. "I like it."

Arthur shakes his head and says flatly, "We don't need a new pillow, especially if it looks like that." He gets to his feet, straightens out his clothing, and moves to the next living area, examining the coffee table with a gentle kick.

Turning his head to stare at a faraway wall, Eames sucks at his teeth and sets his jaw. He breathes slowly, cracks his neck back and forth, then rises to his feet, tossing the pillow on the sofa without looking.

Standing behind Arthur, who's still poking at the second coffee table, Eames asks without inflection, "What kind of table are you looking for?"

Arthur sighs and abandons the second table, making a beeline for another. "Just--" he starts, his voice breaking in frustration, "I dunno if you can help." Eames feels his mouth twitch but listens. "Classy, but understated. Sturdy, but easy to move." Arthur barely glances at him, frowning ever so slightly. "Basically, if you like it, I probably won't."

His tongue touching the inside of his cheek, Eames smiles mirthlessly and steps closer, their shoulders nearly touching. "Why do you do that?" he asks, barely above a whisper, and Arthur looks startled, in his own understated and incredulous way. Eames locks eyes with him, propping his hands on his hips and murmuring, "Why do you belittle me like that?"

Arthur blinks and searches his face. He shifts his weight, leans to one side, and says, "I don't... I'm not...?"

With a scoff, Eames turns on his heel and very nearly charges out of the store, patting his pockets for a fag and his lighter. He's barely outside before lighting up and taking a drag. He inhales, exhales, and leans against the nearest wall.

A moment later, Arthur appears, hovering in his peripheral vision, and Eames stares firmly at the smoke in the air, the ground, a streetlamp. 

"I didn't ... mean to," Arthur says after a long silence, his voice sounding thick. "I never mean to. Belittle you, I mean ... or hurt you." Everything he says sounds like a difficulty, like he can't even apologize and mean it.

Eames takes another long drag, exhales, and finally looks at him. "Oh, you don't?" he says, his voice pitching up. "You don't mean to make me feel two inches tall? You don't mean to parade around like you know so much better than me? Like everything I know or like is _wrong_ simply because it's _different_ from _your_ knowledge or _your_ opinion?"

Arthur turns his head and looks steadily at the wall, pursing his lips. "Eames," he says softly, looking up at him through his lashes, so bloody fucking gorgeous even when Eames is trying to be mad at him, "I- I'm sorry. I can--" Arthur breathes slowly, glances away, looks back. "Listen, you're right, I was being a dick." He faces Eames fully and gestures vaguely with one hand. "Put the cigarette out, come back in, and I'll let you pick something out. Whatever you want."

Eames twirls the fag between his fingers, staring at him. "Anything I want?" he ventures, and Arthur nods.

"Yeah. I'll even pay for it."

Considering that with a hum in his throat, Eames drops the fag and digs it into the ground with his heel. "Very well."

For the first half-hour, Eames remains tense and quiet, and he only engages when Arthur says, "You lead the way."

So he does. He passes the kitchens and the bathrooms, but he hovers around the decorations. He touches canvas paintings and delicate frames, and at one, Arthur says, "That would look beautiful in the living room. We can put it on the bare wall across from the front door."

Eames smiles and takes his hand, says warmly, "Perhaps."

After that, he examines the lights. There are tall lights, ceiling lights, wall lights, and short lights for end tables. Eames keeps coming back to a certain small lamp with a glass cover, tiny landscapes painted onto the whitened surface. With the lightest touch of his finger to the golden metal skeleton, the lamp switches on or off.

Beside him, Arthur asks with genuine wonder, "You touch it and it comes on?"

"Yes," Eames says gleefully, and the light in Arthur's eyes, the smile on his face, is how he chooses his one item.

After a bit longer, they leave IKEA with Arthur's coffee table and the glass lamp. Eames leads Arthur out with an arm around his waist, pecking his dimpled cheek.


	8. hanging out with friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inception team tries to get together at least once a year, to catch up and have some fun. This year, Ariadne suggests camping at Yosemite.

As soon as Eames drives into the campsite, he hears Arthur groan and mutter, "I hate camping."

Reaching over to give him a reassuring pat on the thigh, Eames grins and says, "Come on, Arthur, have a little enthusiasm."

Arthur smiles thinly, pitching his voice up to sound thrilled as he says again, "I _hate_ camping!"

Eames throws his head back with a boisterous laugh, face burning with his grin. "Much better," he says gleefully, "and be thankful you don't have to sleep in a tent or, _heaven forbid_ , on the ground. How would you survive?"

Snorting air out of his nose, Arthur mutters, "Guess Saito's good for some things." Ariadne set up this whole excursion in the first place, and she was the one to ask Saito if he wanted to go camping with them. He politely declined, surely busy without any competition to hinder him, though he insisted on renting a cabin for everyone to enjoy in his absence.

Relaxing into a smile, Eames says gently, "It's pronounced _sigh_ -toe, darling, you always say it wrong." He steers their car down a dirt road, passing tents and various other campers. Farther down, smaller cabins flank them on either side.

Arthur sits forward to get Eames's attention and says firmly, "No, I don't." He sounds so absolutely convinced that Eames can't help laughing again. It takes him possibly an entire minute to calm down enough to reply, and even then, it's with a toothy grin.

"All right, Arthur, whatever you say."

At last, they pull up to their assigned cabin, where two cars are already parked in front. The cabin itself is two stories, and although it has the stacked log sort of look on the outside, Saito assured them it was built with similar materials to modern homes, to keep the heat in and the cold out. There's a few steps leading up to the porch, which wraps around the entire first level, and a few upstairs windows have been opened.

Eames and Arthur get out of their car and remove their bags from the trunk, and they trudge up to the front door. (If Eames hangs back to let Arthur up first, to appreciate his arse in _jeans_ , Arthur doesn't need to know.) Arthur raps on the door, and moments later, it swings inward, Cobb holding it open. He smiles tiredly.

"Thank God," he says, gesturing with one hand, "get in here."

Shuffling inside, Arthur's brows furrow as he asks, "You okay?" Eames follows him in.

Cobb runs a hand through his hair and shuts the door behind them. "Yeah, better now," he says, purposely vague, "I brought some extra guests."

Eames takes Arthur's bag and starts towards the stairs, only to hear the rapid pitter-patter of little feet that could only belong to children. He presses himself to the wall just in time for Phillipa and James to come barreling down, their laughter bouncing off the walls. Eames glances at Arthur, whose eyebrows shoot up as a smile splits his face.

"Hey, guys," he says warmly, and the kids' attention snaps to him.

James gasps and squeals, "Arthur!" He launches himself at Arthur, who effortlessly scoops him up into his arms. Phillipa, for all her efforts at maturity, very nearly skips over to him.

"Hi, Arthur!" she says happily, and James waves his arms around, talking rapidly of the s'mores they're going to make later. Taking Phillipa's hand, Arthur listens with a patient smile, moving further into the living room with the kids.

Eames smiles and brings their bags upstairs, peeking into each room to find an empty one. In the first, he finds Ariadne on the bed, lying on her stomach with a laptop in front of her. "Hello, pumpkin," he coos, and she lifts her gaze, her face lighting up when she sees him.

"Eames!" she cries, rolling off the bed and shutting her laptop in one clumsy motion, going to hover near him. "When did you get here?"

Dropping his bags for a moment, he opens his arms and grins. "A minute ago," he says, "now come and give us a cuddle."

Ariadne smiles and squeezes him around the middle, and she's so teeny, Eames rests his chin atop her head. Behind him, he hears someone say with heavy sarcasm, "Oh, _no_ , I was hoping you'd drive into a ditch or something on the way here."

Still holding onto Ariadne, Eames turns his head to see Yusuf in the doorway, grinning at him. Eames raises one arm and beams back at him. "Enough room for you, too," he teases, and Yusuf makes a show of rolling his eyes.

"I'll pass," he says before sauntering away, and Eames wraps his arms around Ariadne again, squishing her against him.

"Fine, I'll have you all to myself," Eames sniffs, and Ariadne wiggles her way out of his embrace until he's only got an arm around her shoulders.

She smiles and drops her head on his chest. "Dork," she says affectionately, and he kisses the top of her head.

*

That night, everyone gathers at the back of the house, sitting around a fire pit as the sun goes down.

Eames and Arthur sit directly across each other, and every time Arthur glances up at him through the orange glow of the flames, Eames beams at him until Arthur ducks his head to hide a dimpled smile. James sits on Arthur's lap, roasting marshmallow after marshmallow on a long, pointed stick. Cobb sits on Arthur's left, Philippa on his lap, and she carefully sandwiches James's gooey marshmallows between graham crackers and chocolate before passing them around. Flanked by Ariadne on his right (beside Cobb) and Yusuf on his left, Eames sits back in his chair and enjoys the sticky s'mores and a beer, watching everyone around him.

Philippa offers a sandwich to her father, who takes a bite before plucking the sandwich from her little hands and holding it out for her. He says quiet words to her, smiling and leaving a chocolate kiss on her cheek as she bites into the treat.

Yusuf leans over and clinks their beers together. "Not bad, right?" he says with crinkled eyes and a smile.

"Did you add something to my bloody beer?" Eames asks, feigning an accusation with a grin.

Shrugging his shoulders, Yusuf says nothing and gulps some of his beer down.

Beside him, Ariadne jumps and squeaks as her marsmallow bursts into flames, and she brings it up to her mouth, extinguishing the flames with a few rapid breaths. As she tucks it between grahams and chocolate, she discreetly glances around to see if anyone else noticed. Eames smiles at her and mimes zipping his lips closed.

His gaze keeps returning to Arthur's smiling face, though, to the attention he gives James and the quiet way Arthur helps him heat up marshmallows. He can't help but think that Arthur looks wonderful with a child, can't help but think that perhaps Arthur would be that soft and sweet with a child of his own.

Arthur looks up, catches his eyes, and smiles whole-heartedly.


	9. family dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur finally brings Eames to his mom's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest-starring Sally Field as Arthur's mom Amelia.

Arthur shifts his weight at his mother's front porch, frowning and looking anywhere but the door as he rings the bell.

Behind him, he hears Eames say, "Relax, darling. Shouldn't I be the nervous one right now?"

Inhaling and exhaling slowly, Arthur mutters, "It's not that I'm afraid she won't like you." He feels a smirk stretching his mouth, almost derisive. "Trust me, she'll love you." Heaving another long sigh, he says, "I've actually never brought anyone home before." He trails off as he hears footsteps inside the house, then the door swings inwards.

His mother is a small, weathered, and beautiful woman. Her dark but graying hair pulled back, curly bangs framing her face, she wipes her hands on a full-body apron and smiles.

"Come here, baby," she says, opening her arms, and Arthur goes to her, pulling her close around the shoulders and mirroring her smile.

"Hi, Mom," he says softly, and she squeezes him around the middle with a maternal little 'ohh.'

Finally, she pulls back, holding him an arm's length away with a little frown. "You're so skinny, sweetheart," she says plaintively.

Arthur clears his throat and gestures for Eames to come forward. "Mom, this Thomas Eames, but he prefers Eames. He's my--" His voice catches, hating the word 'boyfriend' or 'lover.' Smiling and ducking his head, he says, "Well, I love him."

Moving forward and taking her hand, Eames smiles and says genuinely, "It's wonderful to finally meet you, Ms. Levine." She smiles at him as if she's berating him and uses his grip to pull him into an embrace.

"Oh, come here and call me Amelia," she says, tightening her arms around his torso. "I'm so happy to meet you, too." A moment later, she pulls away and leads Eames further into the house, calling over her shoulder, "Arthur, honey, can you get the door?"

Shutting and locking the front door with a smile, he murmurs, "Sure, Mom."

His mother forces them to sit in the dining room as she brings their food, and she made _courses_. First there's fresh salad (not even a bagged salad mix, but actual romaine lettuce she cuts herself) with their choice of dressing. Over salad, she leans over to tap Arthur on the arm with a disapproving frown and chides, "Get your elbows off the table." Once Arthur sits up, she smiles at Eames and asks, "So what do you do for a living, Eames?"

Arthur sort of chokes, a hand flying to his mouth, and he says quickly, "He does what I do."

Eames quirks an eyebrow at him and says nothing.

His mother purses her lips and says quietly, "I hope you two are careful."

A few minutes later, she whisks their empty salad plates away, and Arthur drops his head in his hands.

Next to him, he hears Eames ask in a whisper, "How much does she know?"

Shaking his head, Arthur says just as softly, "Practically nothing."

When she returns, Arthur sits up straight again and plasters on a smile as she sets plates of penne pasta and red sauce in front of them. "It's spaghetti," she says to Eames, as if Arthur's not right there, "but Arthur doesn't like the long noodles because it's 'too messy.' Oh, and I hope you like whole wheat pasta!"

As they enjoy their entree, she explains the painstaking methods she used to make her semi-homemade marinara sauce. "With ground turkey," she boasts, reaching over to squeeze Arthur's hand, "I know you want to be healthy."

She beams at their empty plates and sweeps them away. Once she's out of earshot, Eames leans over the table towards him and stabs at the table with his index finger. "She deserves to know," he says firmly, and Arthur scowls at him.

"So that she can _worry_ herself to death?" he hisses. "Because she _would_ , Eames. Not only is dreamshare mostly illegal, but--surprise, Mom!--it could put me in a coma or _kill me_. I can't let her live like that." He glances at the kitchen when he thinks he hears her coming, but she doesn't appear.

Eames frowns and asks, "You'd rather lie to her, then?"

His mother suddenly returns, smiling with more plates in her hands. "I hope you saved room for dessert," she says gleefully, setting what looks like some kind of custard in front of them. She sits and enthusiastically describes the process of making the dish, the panna cotta apparently, while Eames and Arthur smile.

Dessert feels like a blur. Arthur tries to help her with the dishes, but she absolutely refuses. "Go home," she says instead, giving him a few Tupperware boxes full of their dinner and dessert before ushering them to the door.

"Dinner was delicious," Eames says, a perfectly charming smile lifting his mouth, "and you have a truly lovely home."

Arthur's mother smiles and pats his arm. "I wouldn't have it if it weren't for Arthur," she says warmly, and Arthur ducks his head.

"Okay," he says, shifting his weight, "thanks for dinner, Mom." She reaches over and pulls him to her, holding the both of them against her with either arm.

"I'm so glad you came," she says again, leaning up to kiss Arthur on the cheek. "Call me more, sweetie." She lets them out of her embrace, hanging onto Arthur's arm for a moment before letting go to open the door for them.

Eames goes out first, and Arthur hangs back, kissing his mom on the top of the head. "Thank you for everything," he says, hushed, "I love you."

Her lip quivers as she kisses him on the cheek once more. "Love you too, sweetie."

As they head out of the house, down the porch, and all the way to their car, his mother stands in her doorway, smoothing her hands over her apron. Once inside their car but before driving away, she smiles and waves, and Arthur waves back.

"She should know," Eames says from the passenger's seat, and Arthur grips the wheel with both hands, pulling onto the street and saying nothing.


	10. singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur sings in the shower, not quietly, but full-on belts it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're like, "wtf is a loufah," it's one of those meshy, spherical scrubby things you use to wash your body. Idk if "loufah" is the common terminology, ha.

Eames sits in their living room, the newspaper crossword in his lap and the television playing some trashy reality show.

A motion in his peripheral vision draws his gaze to the hallway, and he glances up in time to see Arthur disappear into the bathroom, absolutely nude, only a towel slung over his shoulder. Eames's eyebrows shoot up, and he temporarily forgets about the crossword.

"Gonna need me to wash your back, darling?" he calls, shifting in his seat and sitting up.

From the bathroom, he hears the shower door sliding open and the knob being pulled out. "Yeah, thanks," Arthur shouts back, and then he hears the sound of tinny music playing from Arthur's smartphone. "I'll knock when I'm ready," he says, and the shower slides shut.

Eames smiles and settles back into the sofa, returning his attention to the puzzle in front of him. As he's trying to figure out a twelve-letter word for a fictional creature from Wonderland, he hears Arthur singing.

" _La lune, trop bleme / pose un diadème / sur tes cheveux roux. La lune, trop rousse / de gloire éclabousse / ton jupon plein de trous._ "

Grinning widely now, Eames sets the newspaper down again, crossing his ankles on the coffee table and interlocking his fingers over his stomach. He shuts his eyes to listen as Arthur continues.

" _La lune, trop pâle / caresse l'opale / de tes yeux blasés. Princess de la rue / soit la bienvenue / dans mon coeur brisé._

Arthur's French is flawless, speaking or singing, but it sounds especially wonderful when he does the latter. As Arthur sings, his voice rolling and sensual, Eames gets up and goes to hover in the open doorway of the bathroom, Arthur's voice a siren call as the song switches momentarily from French to English.

" _The stairways up to la butte / can make the wretched sigh. While windmill wings of the Moulin / shelter you and I."_

Regrettably, the French song eventually ends, and Arthur's phone must be on random, because the next song is bloody Lady Gaga. Arthur's tone switches immediately, and Eames can't be sure, but Arthur's blurry silhouette looks like it's shaking its hips.

" _Don't be scared / I've done this before / show me your teeth. Don't want no money / just want your sex. Take a bite of my bad girl meat / take a bite of me. Show me your teeth._ "

Eames feels his eyebrows shoot up at the words coming out of Arthur's mouth. Although Arthur is no stranger to cursing or even dirty talk, he's always so concerned about his image, about looking weak for asking Eames to blow him or fuck him, that he restrains himself. Here, though, singing a song he likes, must feel safe. Eames feels his pants growing tight around his hardening cock.

" _Got no direction / just got my vamp. Take a bite of my bad girl meat / take a bite of me, boy. Show me your teeth / the truth is sexy._ "

Between verses, Arthur raps on the shower wall, and Eames takes a moment to respond, if only so Arthur wouldn't know he had been there for that long. (He would never hear the end of it.)

Eames slides open the shower door, and Arthur already has his back facing him, holding a turquoise loufah over his shoulder as he keeps singing. Wetting his lips, Eames reaches forward, ignoring the loufah for a moment and sliding his hands over Arthur's sharp shoulder-blades. Slowly, he feels his way down Arthur's back, over his sides and hips all the way to his perfect arse, and Arthur arches into his touch.

" _Tell me something that'll save me / I need a man who makes me all right,_ " he sings, quieter now.

Swallowing thickly, Eames takes the loufah and begins to scrub the length of Arthur's back, and Arthur braces his hands on the shower wall and drops his chin to his chest. As he works, Eames watches white suds trail down Arthur's spine and slip between his cheeks.

Arthur looks at him from over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded as he sings, " _Tell me something that'll change me / I'm gonna love you with my hands tied / show me your teeth._ " He crosses his wrists and spreads his legs, pushing his arse back in invitation.

"Bloody fuck," Eames says, and he drops the loufah, whipping off his shirt and stumbling into the shower. Immediately, Arthur faces him with a smirk and helps him out of his pants and underwear. Buttons may or may not clatter against the wall as he struggles with his clothing.

With calm hands, Arthur tosses his wet things over the top of the shower, and Eames crowds him face-first against the wall, attaching his mouth to Arthur's neck and sucking hungrily. He takes Arthur's arsecheeks in his hands and squeezes, massages, slaps lightly.

"Shut the door, you animal," Arthur says, a little breathless.

Reaching blindly behind himself, Eames slides the shower door closed before gathering Arthur's wrists in his hands and pinning them to the wall where Arthur had them moments before. "Stay," he says lowly, and he feels Arthur shudder under him.

Eames takes his time, moving his hands over Arthur's wet skin, watching goosebumps raise in the wake of his touch. He spreads soap along Arthur's back with his fingers, following the line of his spine to the swell of his arse.

"You'd better not put that shit anywhere near my asshole," Arthur says suddenly, "we have lube in here for a reason."

Eames quickly reaches for the detachable shower-head, rinsing off Arthur's back. He sets it back in its place and grabs the lube, blocking the spray of water with his body. "I remembered," Eames lies smoothly, and he presses one slick finger against Arthur's hole, leaning forward to kiss his ear. "Now I'll really make you sing, Arthur," he purrs, and Arthur groans quietly.

"Fuck, yes," he says tightly, dark hair sticking to his flushed face.

Later, when Eames is buried deep inside of him, Arthur curls his toes and half-yells when he comes, and Eames grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know how to link stuff on here?
> 
> But here's the first song Arthur sings: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2933uG2GGA
> 
> And the second: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jz0WsUNuN00


	11. making out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After watching Arthur die time after time, Eames has to touch, kiss, feel; he has to know that Arthur's still with him, still here.

PASIV in hand, Arthur leaves the hospital through a back exit. There's already a car waiting for him, Eames in the driver's seat. Without a word, Arthur ducks into the passenger side, and Eames drives off.

The setting sun casts shadows along the road, the red-orange sky bright behind a half dozen skyscrapers. As they drive, Arthur feels Eames's hand take his, and Arthur squeezes silently back.

Back at their hotel, they ride the elevator to their floor, Eames faraway enough to look like they're strangers when they're not alone. They do get off at the same time, but Eames keeps at least two steps behind him.

At last, Arthur unlocks the door to his room, and Eames slips in behind him. He hardly waits for the door to click shut before gathering Arthur into his arms and crushing their mouths together.

Between wet, frantic kisses, Eames asks, "Are you okay? Are you-?" He pushes Arthur's shirt up and presses a hand to his ribs, where bone had shattered and blood had poured from a gunshot in the dreamscape. Arthur can almost feel the agony of it, the bones crunching and hot blood trickling over his hand. Here, though, it's as if it never happened.

"I'm fine," Arthur breathes, taking Eames's hand and intertwining their fingers, "I'm okay."

Eames dips his head to kiss him again, wrapping his free arm around Arthur's waist and pulling him close. Arthur frames his face with his other hand and kisses him just as passionately, his lips burning and sore from the pressure. Their mouths move together, gasping for breath when they shift their heads to kiss again and again.

Arthur reaches behind himself and deadbolts the door before guiding them towards the bed. He tugs at the white doctor's coat that Eames still wears, dropping it on the floor and untucking his button-up shirt. Eames searches out his mouth and insists on kissing him even as Arthur struggles to take their clothes off.

He manages to get Eames's shirt on the floor before Eames grabs his hands and kisses the breath out of him. "I don't care," he says into Arthur's mouth, sitting at the edge of the bed and hastily pulling Arthur onto his lap, "just-- Come here, darling."

Eames drags his hand over Arthur's shirt, then under it, as he absolutely bruises their mouths with kisses. Arthur grasps his shoulders, his arms, his back; he squeezes and touches and kisses him.

"I'm here," he says when they break away to breathe, "I'm here."

He pets Eames's hair and presses their mouths together, slow and sure, and Eames clutches at his shirt when he kisses back.


	12. first time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur runs his fingers along Eames's ties, pulls them taut, and wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for bondage talk/thoughts, totally consensual bondage with a tie, and barebacking (not using a condom). A little D/S I guess?

When Eames comes home in a flawlessly tailored suit and a tie, Arthur can't be blamed for pulling him close by that tie and kissing him senseless.

With one hand, Arthur whips off Eames's suit jacket and unfastens the buttons of his shirt, his free hand stroking the tie as he does. The tie is real silk, Arthur knows because he bought it for Eames, and the royal blue color stands out against the gray suit and white shirt. Arthur wraps the tie around his hand, and Eames makes a choked sound in his throat.

"Bloody hell, Arthur," he says against Arthur's mouth, "let me breathe."

Letting go of the tie, Arthur smooths it out and mutters an apology, pushing Eames's shirt over his shoulders and chasing the revealed skin with his mouth. He trails his tongue over inked, salty skin, nipping and kissing, and he hears Eames groan.

"You look so good," Arthur says against his shoulder, tossing the shirt to the floor, "so good in this suit."

He hears Eames exhale, feels him shudder under his touch, and he works open Eames's pants, shoving them down. 

"Noted," Eames says thickly, stepping out of his pants, then he reaches up to remove his tie.

Something drops in Arthur's stomach, and he snaps his hand up to stop him. "Leave it," he says roughly, and Eames nods.

"Shall we relocate to the bedroom, darling?" he asks, somehow coherent, and Arthur pushes him back towards the sofa, until Eames drops into it.

"Don't care," Arthur says, swiftly pulling his own shirt over his head and kicking off his pants. He climbs into Eames's lap and presses right against him, his knees on either side of Eames's hips. Gripping the tie with one hand, Arthur squeezes Eames's upper arm, hardly able to wrap his hand around its girth.

Eames mouths under his ear, kissing and sucking wetly, and Arthur arches with a jagged gasp. The silk tie slips through his fingers, and he grasps it again, wraps it around his wrist, and a burst of arousal rushes through him. He shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, Eames stroking one large hand down his spine, and then Arthur carefully begins to unknot the tie, sliding it off but holding onto it.

"Eames," he says quietly, and Eames makes a soft, _Mm?_ sound, his mouth moving down Arthur's neck and kissing as he goes.

Arthur sighs and pulls back, framing Eames's face with his free hand and waiting until their eyes meet. "I want to try something," Arthur says, forcing his voice to be firm and sure, and Eames blinks at him, his gaze flicking between Arthur's eyes and the tie in his hands.

"You want to tie me up?" Eames asks carefully, and Arthur drops his gaze, a mirthless grin spreading his mouth.

"Maybe another day," he says slowly, and he looks back at him, holding up the tie. "No, I... want you to do it to me."

Eames searches his face, his eyes flicking between Arthur's and the tie; Arthur can't read his face, but it's almost like he's trying to figure out some hidden meaning to Arthur's request. After a pause, Eames says gently, "Can I ask why?"

Arthur exhales and looks down at the tie, smoothing his fingers over the slick material. He imagines it around his wrists, soft and yielding, and then he thinks of _rope_ , real rope around his wrists, rope he's always looked at but never bought. He thinks of being held together only by that rope and shivers, lips parting.

Sometimes, when Arthur was alone, he locked his office door and went on his laptop for _hours_. He learned knots, memorized positions, touched himself as he thought, desperately, of Eames doing it to him; he thought of Eames above him, tying his ankles to his thighs (the frogtie, so open, so vulnerable) and his wrists to the headboard of their bed before Eames sinks into him, and Arthur can only scream and come.

Swallowing thickly, Arthur says at last, "Because I've never asked anyone else to. Because I--" His voice breaks. _Trust you,_ he wants to say but can't. Arthur clears his throat and lowers his voice. "I know I get really anal sometimes, and it's hard for me to relax when you want me to, but I think if you did this for me, I could... be completely _with_ you. I won't be over-thinking shit or worrying about how loud I _moan_ or whatever other bullshit holds me back when I have sex with you." He looks Eames in the eye again, frowning. "I want you to have _all of me_ ," he says, gesturing along the length of his body. "I want to _give you_ all of me."

Eames holds his gaze, blue-gray eyes boring into him, and Arthur looks at the tie again, pulling it between his fingers. His heart sinking into his stomach, he rolls his shoulders before setting it aside. Before he can lay it on the couch, Eames's large, warm hand touches his wrist, and Arthur glances up at him, his breath caught in his throat.

"I would be honored," Eames says steadily, and he takes the tie, leaning forward to peck Arthur on the cheek. A shaky breath bursts from Arthur's mouth, and he only just notices he was holding his breath.

With all his consideration of a brilliant forger examining a mark, Eames pulls the tie taut between his hands, and Arthur shivers. Eames strokes the tie from one end to the other, slowly, before wrapping it a few times around one closed fist. "Do you want your hands in front of you or behind you?" he asks, tone measured, and Arthur doesn't even have to think about it.

"Behind," he says immediately.

Making a thoughtful noise in his throat, Eames nods and makes a little motion with his free hand. "Would you get up a moment, darling?" he asks, and a thrill of pleasure zips right to Arthur's dick as he obeys.

Standing and turning around, he offers his crossed wrists to Eames. After a moment of nothing, Arthur feels warm, thick fingers brush his, then the smooth silk of the tie as Eames winds it around his wrists. He breathes through his mouth, feeling like his skin is _electrified_ , and he flexes his fingers as he feels Eames fasten the knots.

"Is that too tight, my love?" Eames asks softly, and Arthur twists his wrists, a wet spot blooming on his underwear around the head of his cock. He can actually rotate his wrists, loose enough that his circulation wouldn't be affected, knotted close enough to his skin that he can't escape.

"It's perfect," Arthur says, sounding wrecked, and he feels soft, plush lips pressing kisses to his forearms and elbows.

Placing his hands on Arthur's hips, Eames turns him around so they're facing each other, and he hooks one thumb under the waistband of Arthur's boxer-briefs, tugging one side down under the sharp angle of his hipbone. With his free hand, he traces the shape of Arthur's erection over the cotton, and Arthur shivers and gasps hoarsely. Slowly, Eames tugs his underwear down over his hips, his thighs, his calves, sliding his hands over Arthur's legs. When he comes back up, he mouths at Arthur's cock, and Arthur's knees shake as he moans a soft, _ah_.

"Come here," Eames says at last, and Arthur does, climbing back onto his lap, his knees framing Eames's hips. He sits back on Eames's thighs and licks his lips, and Eames smiles, one hand on Arthur's back and the other cupping his bare ass. He leans forward and attaches his mouth to Arthur's nipple and sucks, and Arthur groans, tipping his head back.

"There's lube in the drawer under the lamp," he says automatically, and Eames chuckles against his skin.

After a moment of shifting and squirming, they settle back together, and with the hand on his back, Eames guides Arthur forward to have him relax against Eames's chest. Arthur tucks his head in the crook of Eames's neck. "There you are," Eames soothes, pushing wet fingers inside of him, and Arthur moans hotly against his neck, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists. He's hot and cold and breathless and _needy_.

"Please," Arthur says softly, and Eames's fingers pause, knuckle-deep.

"Say it again, darling," he says, voice rough, and Arthur feels a hot flush rising in his face.

"Please," he says again, breaking, "more, Eames, _please_."

Eames adds a third finger and strokes into him, massaging his insides, and Arthur cries out when Eames brushes that spot that has him seeing white and leaking from the tip. "So good for me," Eames rumbles, and Arthur nearly wails, crumbling and shuddering as Eames's fingers press and circle and _tease_ his prostate.

"Don't let me come," Arthur gasps, "I want you- inside-" His voice hitches.

Eames slows his movements before pulling back his hand. He reaches down and frees his own cock from his underwear, and Arthur inhales sharply when he realizes that Eames is _hard_. "You look breathtaking like this," Eames says as he coats his cock in lube, sounding suddenly as wrecked as Arthur feels, "I want to come inside you, darling, may I do that?"

It takes a split-second for Arthur to think of it, to think of Eames's hot come filling him up and then dripping out of him. It takes a split-second for him to moan, " _God_ , yes."

Eames lifts his hips up and positions the crown of his cock under Arthur's hole, and he's ready, _so ready_. "Please," Arthur says again, writhing in his grasp, tears sticking to his lashes, "Eames, fuck, _please_." He knows what he looks like and he doesn't care, needs Eames inside him too badly, needs to give him everything, needs to let Eames _take it all_. He's hot, _so hot_ , unbearably hot all over, and he _needs_.

Almost wide-eyed, Eames brushes hair out of his face and shushes him, warmly, with a few kisses. "Yes, Arthur, I've got you," he says, his hands sure against Arthur's skin, and Arthur trembles as Eames lowers him onto the head of his cock.

That first stretch always burns the most, hurts the most, and Arthur throws his head back and pants. Eames sinks slowly in, stretching him, and Arthur only knows he's all the way in when Eames groans a sound that reverberates through his chest, his fingers digging into Arthur's hips. Eames wets his lips.

"Can I-"

" _Yes_ , God-- Eames, _yes_."

Eames moves, using his hold on Arthur's hips to lift him just wonderfully enough to drop him back onto his thrusting cock, and Arthur moans with it, unabashed. Saliva dribbles down his chin, pools in Eames's navel. Leaning forwardly, Eames sucks on his clavicle, his neck, teeth scraping bone and tendon as he jerks his hips up.

Arthur sees white, only white, as Eames fucks him, takes him. He might even be wailing, screaming wordlessly, and hot tears slip from his eyes. Eames grasps the back of his neck, and arousal burns through him, fierce and fresh.

"Please, _please_ ," he says, the words half-coherent and hitched on a gasp, "Eames- let me, let me-" His erection bounces against his stomach, untouched and red. He's filling up, right at the edge, so close it aches. He moans, his voice pitching higher.

Eames curls his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and grasps his cock with his free hand. "I've got you, Arthur," he says, the words burned into him now, "come for me, darling." He strokes Arthur's cock with a firm grip, and Arthur yells as he comes like a fucking dam bursting, all-encompassing pleasure rushing through him, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. He rides the waves, barely aware of his own come spurting across his chest, rocking his hips down against Eames's cock as he sighs and sighs.

Tucking his head into the crook of Eames's neck again, Arthur breathes and blinks, pinpricks dancing across his body. Eames's hold on his hips suddenly tightens as Eames groans, and Arthur shivers one more time as Eames fills him.

There's a long moment where they sit like that in silence, then Eames sits up to untie him. Arthur feels boneless as Eames unfastens the knots and slips the tie away, and then he's lifting Arthur, laying him down on the sofa beside him.

Arthur feels a wide, dopey smile split his face. "Thank you," he says, voice rough and hardly above a whisper, "thank you so much." He might taste more salty tears on his chapped lips.

Eames leans over him and wipes his face with his thumbs, plump mouth pulled into a smile. "Of course, my love," he says softly, "I've never seen you like that." He pauses and intertwines their fingers with one hand. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

Arthur ducks his head and curls up, and Eames strokes his hair until he dozes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell what my kinks are
> 
>  
> 
> _can you_
> 
>  
> 
> (for realsies though, the thought of jgl tied up _does things_ to me)


	13. costumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur loses the suits and hair gel for jeans and tees when he and Eames investigate a mark.
> 
> Eames is appropriately amused.

Eames jogs the long stretch of the Miami beach, the sun beating down on his shoulders, seeping through his baseball cap and white tank. From behind dark sunglasses, he observes that the sand and surf is packed with people, families and couples and gym rats, the latter he's purposely emulating. There are earbuds fitted in his ears, but they're silent; he can hear children squealing with delight, adults shouting at them from their comfortable blankets, the waves lapping at the shore.

Eames passes an outdoor bar beside the shore, and he hardly spares a glance at Arthur, who catches his eye behind black-rimmed eyeglasses. Stopping and leaning one hand against the outer wall of the bar, Eames bends down and grips his ankle to stretch his quad. "Can you hear me?" he asks softly.

Nursing a beer, the seaside breeze tousling his dark, loose curls, Arthur smiles against his glass. "Yes," his voice crackles though one earbud, "now get outta here."

Eames stretches his other leg and looks away from him, suppressing a grin. "You look so _casual_ , darling, I love it," he says gleefully. Arthur's wearing a fucking _t-shirt_ and _loose jeans_. There are glimpses of Arthur's skin inside little _holes_ and _tears_ of those light blue, frayed jeans, and his shirt has an actual _graphic_ on it. "What secondhand store did you get those pants from?" he teases, then he pushes off from the wall and eases into another jog.

"The Goodwill," Arthur says flatly, and Eames lets himself grin this time. When Arthur speaks again, his tone shifts to all business, "Now get to my five o'clock; the mark's under a big umbrella, alone as far as I know."

A moment later, Eames passes their mark, who is indeed sitting under his striped umbrella alone. He's attached to his phone, flicking at the touch screen, his sunglasses sliding down his nose.

"You really think we won't need the PASIV for this one?" Arthur asks, his tone even.

Dropping suddenly to a push-up position, Eames glances at the mark, still about twenty yards away. "I think that if he was seeing another woman, he wouldn't hide it well," he says honestly, huffing with exertion as he drops into a few push-ups. "We shouldn't waste somnacin on someone we can simply catch in the act and bring evidence back." He grunts.

Arthur's breath stutters. "I don't get why I need to be here, too," he says thickly, then there's a long pause. Eames watches the mark through his peripheral vision, who looks up every few moments, but always returns his eyes to the phone in his hands.

"Eames," Arthur's voice comes through, accusatory, "did you drag me along _just to see me in jeans_?"

A grin spreading his face, Eames holds himself close to the sand, elbows bent at ninety degrees. "Now, Arthur," he says with difficulty, "what a ridiculous notion. I value your unique intelligence and business practices enough to ask you to join me, and you accuse me of only admiring you as _eye candy_?" He pushes himself back up and holds a plank. "I am truly insulted," he says, affecting a wounded tone.

Arthur snorts air out of his nose. "Sure," he deadpans, then adds, "but you should know that I'm considering throwing my business practices out the window to fuck on the beach. You should see yourself. Jesus, fuck, are you _still_ doing push-ups?"

Eames turns his head to glance at him, and Arthur is facing away from the bar, his elbows balanced on the counter. His head is turned in Eames's general direction, and their eyes meet for a moment before Arthur snaps his gaze away.

"So you like what you see?" Eames says, and at the same time, Arthur growls, "Stop looking at me, dammit."

Looking back towards the mark, Eames notices a male lifeguard coming towards the umbrella. Watching, Eames sits back on his calves and stretches his arms over his head, one finger poised above his glasses. The lifeguard ducks under the umbrella to peck the mark on the mouth, and Eames presses a button on the rim of his shades, snapping a photo of them.

"Oh," Arthur crackles through, dumbfounded, "huh."

"Oh, indeed," Eames agrees cheerily, and he gets back to his feet. "Let's call the Missus and reassure her that her husband's not seeing another woman. I'm sure she'll take the news quite gracefully."

Arthur clears his throat. "First," he says roughly, "meet me in the bathroom of that cafe behind you."

Eames grins and tugs up the bottom of his white tank to wipe his face, and Arthur's throat hitches. "Of course, love," Eames says brightly, and he jogs off.


	14. morning rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur refuses to let Eames French him until they've both brushed their teeth.

Arthur is pulled slowly and gently from sleep by a warm mouth on his. He smiles and kisses back, hearing a pleased sound, and there's an arm around his waist.

"Good morning, my love," Eames's voice purrs beside him, and Arthur opens his eyes.

Eames faces him, the both of them on their sides, and his plump mouth stretches into a lazy smile. He reaches up and brushes soft curls out of Arthur's face, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

"Hey," Arthur says, drowsy but warm, "what're you doing up?"

"Woke up at five," Eames sighs, "couldn't get back to sleep."

Arthur half-sits up and glances at the clock before flopping back down. "So you've been watching me sleep for two hours?" he asks with a huff of laughter.

Eames tucks his thumb into Arthur's cheek, probably inside a dimple. "Of course not," Eames says, affecting a defensive tone, "I also used your hand for a good, long wank. You're a very deep sleeper, Arthur." He grins, and Arthur really laughs this time.

"That explains why my arm is so sore," he deadpans, and Eames throws his head back with a boisterous bark of a laugh.

"I love you," he says when he comes back, grinning and leaning in to kiss him again.

Arthur strokes his shoulder, squeezes his arm, and Eames makes a hungry sound before plunging his tongue inside. The uniquely disgusting taste of morning breath (more like morning mouth) fills his senses, and Arthur jerks back with a grimace.

"No," he says, face pinched, "we haven't brushed." As he climbs out of bed, he hears Eames groan loudly from behind.

"The things I do for love," he says plaintively, exaggerating his lament.

Stifling a laugh, Arthur goes to the bathroom and neatly squirts toothpaste onto his brush, and Eames ambles in a moment later. Arthur smiles around his toothbrush.

Literally the moment their mouths have been washed clean of white foam, Eames pins him against the bathroom counter and ravishes Arthur's mouth with his tongue. Arthur can't help the soft noise he makes as he kisses back, humming at the minty aftertaste.

"That's better," he breathes when they break apart, and Eames dives right back in with a toothy grin.


	15. nighttime rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur reads before bed, Eames wants nothing more than to get his attention.

Eames shuts their bedroom door behind him, crawling on top of the bed covers and over Arthur's legs tucked inside the sheets. He follows those long legs all the way to a bent torso, where Arthur's sitting up against the headboard, holding his Kindle in his lap.

Bumping his head against the back of the tablet, Eames paws at his arm and imitates a whimpering dog.

Arthur looks at him from over the thick rim of his glasses (he needs prescription lenses but always wears contacts unless he's relaxing), and he smiles softly. "What are you doing?" he asks, his lips pursed but his eyes wrinkled at the corners. 

"You're not paying attention to me," Eames pretends to whine, pouting at him, and Arthur reaches over, petting his hair.

"You jealous of Tolkien?" Arthur asks with a smirk, obviously teasing. "I mean, you should be. You don't even speak Elvish."

With a thoughtful hum in his throat, Eames scoots his way off the bed and burrows under the sheets. "That's true," he says, muffled by the thick comforter, and he follows Arthur's bare legs back up until he finds his underwear. "But I'm sure I can find a better use for my mouth," he purrs, and he leans close, mouthing at Arthur's cock through his tight boxer-briefs.

Through the sheets, he hears a soft hitch of breath, and Eames grins. He reaches up and tugs Arthur's underwear down just low enough to lick his balls and pull his cock into his mouth. He feels something heavy drop beside him onto the bed, probably the tablet, then the sheets get pushed down over his shoulders. Arthur's fingers thread through his hair.

"Fuck," he mutters, and Eames lifts his head from Arthur's hardening cock to stroke him with one hand.

"Bit better than Tolkien?" Eames asks with a smile, and Arthur licks his lips.

"Yeah," he says roughly, "don't stop."

Eames doesn't.


	16. working out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every morning, Eames walks into their living room, where Arthur rolls his hips or does jumping jacks to one of his many workout videos.
> 
> It's a wonderful treat.

With a yawn, Eames steps out of the shower and whips a towel off the rack to dry off. Faraway, he thinks he hears music playing and someone talking over it.

Shrugging it off, he dresses in comfortable sweatpants and a tee before investigating the sounds in the living room.

He sees Arthur situated in front of their television, the coffee table moved to one side to give him room, and his gym shorts and tank are nearly soaked through with sweat. He's dropping into burpees, probably an American invention, and when he comes back up, he glances at Eames and gives him a brief grin.

"Morning," he manages, and Eames smiles back.

"Good morning," he says warmly, "so what is it today? P90X? TurboFire? Insanity? Is it Zumba? I bloody _love_ Zumba." All that shaking of Arthur's arse with his arms over his head would send Eames right back into the shower.

The man on the television leads three girls in the routine, the girls ever-smiling. When he speaks, the man has a thick accent, most likely South American. 

"Brazilian Butt Lift," Arthur says at last, and Eames bursts out laughing. Arthur flashes him a sharp look and snaps, "Don't laugh, this kicks your ass!"

Eames laughs again, louder and longer. "I think that's the point," he says, grinning and wiping his eyes.

Arthur huffs and faces the t.v. again, shaking his hips along with the instructor, and Eames watches, mesmerized. "Now I know the secret to your fantastic arse," he says, raising his eyebrows as Arthur's tight arse swishes this way and that.

Smirking, Arthur looks at him from over his shoulder and slowly, deliberately, rolls his hips in a circle. He raises his arms over his head and says, "This isn't a free show, Mister Eames."

Eames's mouth positively waters, and he swallows thickly. "What's the price?" he barely manages.

Arthur turns to face him, still moving his hips in sensual circles. He holds the silence, stepping closer and pushing Eames until the backs of his knees hit the sofa. Eames drops onto it, and Arthur climbs neatly onto his lap, his legs on either side of Eames's hips.

"I'll give you a dance," Arthur says lowly, hooking one finger under the collar of Eames's shirt, "and you gimme a ride."

Eames inhales sharply and wraps his arms around him, switching their positions to snog Arthur properly against the couch. Arthur reaches for the lube.

Arthur's sweaty workout clothing hits the floor, and Eames fingers him open, fucks into him to the lively samba beat coming from their television speakers. He pants and sweats as Arthur had watching his video, pulse racing, but the wrecked moan that Arthur makes when he arches and comes makes this impromptu workout _entirely_ worth it.


	17. spooning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur should've know that a mark obsessed with the American frontier would have some seriously crazy projections.

Checking the ammo in his six-shooter, Arthur grinds his teeth and takes six bullets from the bandolier running from one of his shoulders to the opposite hip. He quickly pops them into the empty slots, the train bouncing along the tracks under him.

Gunfire shatters the window behind him, and a strong grip on his arms drags him to the ground, a hand on his head forcing him to duck behind an empty passenger seat. Arthur makes a noise that is definitely not a yelp as he goes down, and a warm body molds against his back. 

"Having fun without me, darling?" Eames says in his ear, and broken glass rains on them. Eames curls them up, pulling Arthur's back flush against his front, and they both throw their arms up to cover their faces.

"You're supposed to be with the mark!" Arthur shouts between bursts of gunfire.

"Change of plans," he says curtly, "he rode off after some bandits with the marshal. I think he was trying to impress the sweet southern debutante."

When Arthur glances over his shoulder at him, Eames has changed his face to the golden-haired daughter of the marshal he invented to distract the mark. Between one second and the next, Eames has his own face again.

Snapping his gaze forward again, Arthur wrenches away from him and takes cover under the door at the end of the train car. "You should have went after him with another forgery, now he's good as dead," he says furiously, and he heaves himself up to empty his six-shooter at the projections in the next car.

Eames grabs him by the hips and pulls him back down, wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist and chest until they're spooning again. "He was a bloody deadeye, Arthur," he says tightly, "it would have been a waste of my time. You needed a distraction, you got one." His arms tighten, and Arthur feels him kiss the back of his head. "Is it so awful that I came to help? You're stuck here now, aren't you? And we work better together, don't we?" His fingers clench in Arthur's jacket, and Arthur's chest feels pried open.

Bullets splinter the wood paneling, and Eames bodily flips them over, so his back faces the door. He keeps them plastered together, like they're really spooning and not picking off projections, his arms like vices around Arthur's body.

The gunfire lulls a moment, and Eames sits up with a Winchester Repeater suddenly in his hands, scrambling to the door and resting it on the bottom frame of the broken window. He nearly empties the rifle, watching the faraway car with an intense, critical gaze.

At last, Eames stands and offers a hand. "Clear," he says, and Arthur stares. Eames didn't spoon him just to do it; he was using his body as a human shield, curling himself around Arthur to protect him. Taking his hand, Arthur swallows. 

"Thanks," he says, quiet and genuine, as Eames lifts him to his feet, "thank you."

Gently, Arthur squeezes his hand, and Eames squeezes back. "Let's finish this," he says with a smile, reloading his rifle, and Arthur smirks.

"Let's."


	18. drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Arthur tips his head back and downs shot after shot, Eames can't help but be impressed.
> 
> Then Arthur tries to stand up.

Eames smiles and lifts his dark, foamy beer to his mouth for a long drink. Beside him, Ariadne leans against his arm and sips light champagne, bright red raspberries floating at the top. She turns her head to grin at him, and the warm lights of the bar brighten her young face.

"Feeling all right?" he asks softly, and she nods.

"Feelin' _good_ ," she says, extending the word with a tipsy little tilt of her head.

Laughing, Eames pats her head and says, "Pace yourself, sweetheart." She giggles and half-collapses against him.

Across from them, a dozen empty shot glasses cover the tabletop like bullet casings in a war zone. Arthur and Yusuf face each other with fresh shots in hand, gunslingers with revolvers at the ready, then they both throw their heads back with the glasses at their mouths, sinking tequila with pinched faces.

Eames stares at the long line of Arthur's throat as he swallows, and he hums lowly. Arthur sets his empty shot glass next to his others and fixes him a smirk. "See something you like?" he teases, and his voice is shockingly level, as if he hasn't consumed a _gallon_ of tequila.

"Always," Eames says, wetting his lips, and he takes a few more gulps of beer.

Arthur's mouth stretches into a rare grin.

There's an audible thump as Yusuf drops his head on the table next to his empty glasses. "You win," he groans, "you're a bloody robot, Arthur."

Arthur leans back in his seat with a smug upturn of his mouth, interlocking his fingers behind his head. "Guilty," he says gleefully.

Eames tilts his chin towards him, his head buzzing. "I have to say, I'm impressed!" he says a little loudly, reaching over to rub Arthur's knee. "I'm so in love with you and your stomach of steel right now."

"Mm," Arthur says, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "thanks. I gotta piss." He moves to stand, and he pauses after he completely rises, clutching the edge of the table with comically wide eyes. Swaying, he starts forward but stumbles and leans on the back of Yusuf's chair for support.

Eames laughs and follows him, taking his arm. "Oh, so you are human," he says gently. "Come along, darling, I've got you." He carefully leads him to the bathroom. 

"I gotta piss," Arthur says again, adamant, "but the...floor came at me." He hangs onto Eames's arm and shoulder. "I could kick the _shit_ outta that floor, Eames."

Holding open the bathroom door, Eames guides him inside. "You certainly could," he agrees, warm and genuine.

Arthur suddenly realises they've reached the bathroom, and he goes about his business with an uneven walk. Literally as he's relieving himself, he turns his head and smiles at Eames. "Hey, I _love_ you," he says, his voice pitching up, and he sounds so young.

Eames smiles back. "I love you, too," he says quietly, then he clears his throat. "Now finish taking your piss."

Arthur laughs absurdly loudly, might nearly snort, and Eames's face burns with his grin.


	19. formal wear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a job, Eames invents aliases for the team.
> 
> Arthur wants a new one.

Arthur straightens his tie and passes Eames on the way out of the warehouse, who holds a folder out for him.

"Your identity for the night," he says quietly, smirking, and Arthur raises his eyebrows.

"Thanks," he says, cautiously, and he pauses in the doorway to glance at the forged documents inside. His face pinching, he picks up the passport and holds it open for Eames to see. "James _Darling_?" he reads flatly. "What am I, a J.M. Barrie character?"

Eames guffaws and says, "Oh, but your mother and father _adore_ those stories, you were practically raised on them. You were even a little Peter Pan for Halloween one year!"

Arthur snorts air out of his nose. "You gave me a background?"

With a cocky little twist of his head, Eames says, "But of course. I'm _extremely_ thorough. Everyone needs interesting anecdotes for a party. What else is there to talk about?"

Perusing the other papers, Arthur hums and starts towards the door. "Sure," he says with an ounce of sarcasm. Just before leaving, he half-turns towards Eames again and asks, "What's your name, then?"

Eames grins at him and winks. "You'll see, darling," he teases, and Arthur snorts again.

"Uh-huh." He sweeps out of the building.

*

"Would you like a puffed pastry with spinach-artichoke filling?"

Arthur turns his head towards the small, female voice and smiles at Ariadne, wearing the all-black uniform of the food servers at the gala. "No, thank you," he says politely, then he lowers his voice. "Have you seen Eames?"

Her mouth turning down, she subtly shakes her head. Arthur nods, and she slips back into the crowd, leaning over the bar where Yusuf pours drinks for wealthy patrons. He watches her mouth move, sees Yusuf shrug his shoulders with a frown. Arthur purses his lips and glances at the main entrance.

Then he does a double-take.

Eames enters the house, _an actual fitted tuxedo_ hugging his broad shoulders and tapering to his waist. Arthur watches him fix his cuffs, like he's James fucking Bond or something, but Arthur still _gapes_ , still feels suddenly hot in his own suit. The fine fabric of Eames's pants stretch over his thick thighs, and even his shoes have been shined. Eames passes a hand over his slicked down hair, then strokes his neatly trimmed facial hair.

Their eyes meet across the room, and Eames grins at him; Arthur touches the nearest column to keep himself up in case his knees give out, tells himself to breathe, stares at the nearest wall. A moment later, a familiar figure hovers in his peripheral vision. Arthur glances at him, and Eames sticks out his hand with a downplayed smile. Arthur's gaze sort of sticks on Eames's suit jacket tight around his muscular arm.

"James Darling?" Eames asks, and he sounds more posh than usual. Arthur has to _literally_ trap his tongue between his teeth to keep from saying something about that particular name. "It's a pleasure," Eames says smoothly. "My name is Edward Blackbourne."

Arthur doesn't mean to lick his lips and rub the lobe of his own ear, a nervous tell Eames has pointed out on several occasions, and Eames's mouth stretches into a grin once more. "The pleasure is mine," Arthur manages, straightening up and shaking his hand.

*

Eames drags him into their bedroom, tugging at their clothes. Arthur inhales sharply when Eames starts to shrug off his own suit jacket.

"Keep it," Arthur breathes, kicking off his own clothes. Eames pulls at his shirt to help, and Arthur nearly stumbles in his frantic attempts to get fucking naked already. Eames lifts him and holds him against the wall, unbuttoning his pants and kissing Arthur fiercely. As Eames fucks up into him, Arthur curls his fingers in the arms of Eames's jacket, carelessly wrinkling the expensive material as he comes.


	20. dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames convinces Arthur to take an eight week dance course for queer couples, waxing poetics about strengthening their love and trust through the age-old art of dance.
> 
> Really, he just wants to show Arthur off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest-starring the lovely Thandie Newton as the instructor.

Eames leans against the side wall of the studio, watching Arthur absently straighten his tie.

"Darling," he says softly, "you look perfect."

Arthur snorts air out of his nose. "Of course I do," he says flatly.

With a laugh, Eames tugs him forward by the belt until Arthur leans against him. "Come and relax, I mean," Eames says harmlessly, stroking his hands over Arthur's sides, smoothing out his fine waistcoat.

A small, thin woman with glowing, dark skin sweeps gracefully into the studio. She brushes a hand over the flawless bun at the top of her head and situates herself at the front of the room, her back-less dress reflected in the long mirror behind her.

"Good evening," she says in a crisp English accent, a warm smile cresting her lips.

Arthur twists to face her before letting his weight fall back against Eames's front, and Eames winds his arms around Arthur's waist.

"My name is Anita Hall, and it is my sincerest pleasure to welcome you to this class: Intimate Dances for Queer Couples," the woman says, and she makes sure to look at everyone in turn as she speaks. "The class is small to ensure the best possible instruction, so if you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to see me after any class." She claps her hands together. "Let's begin with a simple warm-up, then we'll move right into traditional ballroom dancing."

As the class stretches, Eames's attention is constantly divided between Anita's instructions and Arthur; his gaze catches on the veins in Arthur's forearms when he rolls up his shirtsleeves, or Arthur's tight arse in his clinging trousers. Once they finish stretching, Eames eagerly pulls Arthur against him.

"You're a bloody _tease_ , you know that?" he says lowly, and Arthur flashes a grin at him, even wrinkling and dimpling a brief second.

"So I've been told," he says, roughening his voice, and Eames has to suppress a shiver.

At the head of the room, Anita claps her hands twice, which seems to be her go-to method of getting the attention of the room. "Traditionally, the male partner leads in a couple's dance, but I don't want any of you to feel emasculated because you are not the lead. A dance between two people, like love, relies heavily on trust; if the following partner does not completely believe in their lead, they won't be able to give themselves over to neither the music nor their leading partner. Please take a moment between yourselves to decide how you want to proceed." She smiles gently. "Remember that we do have eight weeks together, and you and your partner can of course take turns."

Without having to be prompted, Eames places his hand on Arthur's lower back and interlocks their fingers with a grin. "That was easy," he jokes.

Arthur's brow furrows, and a barely noticeable frown curves his mouth downwards. He goes stiff in Eames's arms. "Why'd you assume I wanted you to lead?" he asks, tone bizarrely level.

Eames makes an appropriately confused face, pursing his mouth into an 'o' shape before clarifying, "Well, because I lead in the bedroom, love."

Arthur's eyes narrow the slightest fraction, and he moves closer, tilting his head to whisper in Eames's ear. "You could have asked," he says thickly. "Maybe I wanted to lead you."

Faraway, Eames hears Anita instructing the couples through a simple box-step, the building blocks for nearly every dance they will learn. Eames mimics her steps, and although Arthur follows him, he does it with rigid shoulders and limbs. "Are you upset?" Eames asks, incredulous, because honestly, what did he do _this time_?

"Why," Arthur rasps in his ear, ignoring him, "are you so adamant about being 'the top' or ' _the man_ ' between us? Bottoming doesn't make me less of a man. Letting me lead in a fucking _tango_ won't emasculate you."

Eames clenches his jaw and imperceptibly tightens his hold on Arthur's back and hand.

"Remember to relax," Anita intones, and if anything, Eames and Arthur both tense even more. Eames guides them to the wall and brings Arthur into the corner, turning their backs to the rest of the class.

"You're right," Eames says, hushed, looking him in the eye. "I do-" His voice catches, and he's suddenly at a loss for words. He wets his lips and looks at the floor. "I am afraid of that," he admits, so softly he wonders if Arthur can even hear him. "There is a, a part of me that purposely casts you in that more feminine role." He looks back at Arthur, his fingers twitching, and says genuinely, "And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I do that."

Arthur's face has gentled, and his forehead has that particular wrinkle between his eyebrows unique to him. He searches Eames's face, and without saying a word, Eames hears him asking, _Why do you do it?_

Eames sighs, grasping for the words but finding nothing, so he just talks. "When we're intimate, Arthur," he starts, slowly and carefully, "I feel as if it's the only time you let me have any control. You take care of everything - the bills, the meals, the shopping - but let me have you in the bedroom, and I suppose I take that for granted." Arthur opens his mouth, and Eames touches his lips with a smile. "Love, I would be thrilled to let you lead us in a dance, and if you truly, _truly_ wanted to switch in the bedroom, I would give myself to you." He squeezes Arthur's hand. "You are absolutely everything to me. I want nothing more than to be happy with you."

Arthur cups his cheek with one hand, his own face soft. "If you want to do anything around the house - go to the bank or _anything_ \- you know that you just _can_ , right? You won't fuck it up." More quietly, he says, "I trust you." He leans forward and kisses Eames's cheek, tugging him back to the dance floor.

With a delicate touch to the small of Eames's back, Arthur's fingers whisper, _I'm sorry_. Intertwining their fingers and taking the first step, his touch murmurs, _Thank you for this._ When Eames kisses his ear, his plush mouth wordlessly says, _I'm sorry, too._ Eames squeezes Arthur's shoulder with a grin that encourages, _You're a natural._ They move together, smooth as silk and pressed close, each of them sighing with the smile in their eyes, _I love you_.


	21. watching porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur doesn't really watch porn; it doesn't do much for him.

Arthur enters their Los Angeles home, carefully balancing a reusable bag full of groceries in the crook of one arm.

"Everyone and their sister decided to go to the store today," he announces as he passes the empty living room, setting the bag on a kitchen counter. For a moment, he gets no response, and Arthur slowly opens one of the drawers, curling his fingers around the handle of a filet knife. "Eames?" he calls. "How's your back?" _Are we in danger?_

He grips the counter and waits, holding the knife at the ready.

A moment later, Eames calls back, "It's fine, love, I'm fine." _We're safe._

Releasing the breath he'd been holding, Arthur returns the knife to the drawer and efficiently puts the few groceries away. Finally, he follows Eames's voice down the hall to the office, and he hovers in the doorway.

Sitting in front of their computer, Eames swivels around and grins at him, wearing nothing but loud, striped boxers. There's a pair of circa-1999 headphones around his neck. "'Allo, darling," he says gleefully, and Arthur raises one eyebrow.

"What were you doing?" he asks flatly, fighting a smirk. Eames waggles his eyebrows, shameless.

"Wanking!"

Arthur snorts air out of his nose. "So that's why you didn't hear me."

"Guilty," Eames says with a wink, and he turns to face the computer screen, moving the mouse until the screen blinks to life. Arthur goes to stand behind him, propping one hand on the back of the chair.

There's a little video on the screen, paused on a fucking pizza guy mid-thrust into a girl with somehow-perfect pigtails. "Oh, wow," Arthur says with a roll of his eyes, "why do you watch this godawful shit?"

Eames hits 'play,' and the video blurs into motion, the guy pounding into the girl while she screams or squeals or moans (Arthur can't tell through the tiny headphone speakers), but she _way_ over-sells it. "I happen to like this godawful shit, darling," he says, exaggerating a snippy tone. "I don't need to spend good money to get off."

Arthur's face pinches as the camera angle switches to the guy's dick plunging into the girl's, um, vagina. "This is doing the opposite of getting me off," he says, nose wrinkled.

Humming in his throat, Eames quickly navigates away from the page and onto another site. "Oh, we can't have that, can we?" he coos. "Let's find something for my lovely Arthur."

An aborted laugh slips out of Arthur's mouth, and it's more like a loud exhale than an actual laugh. "Won't work," he deadpans. "Trust me, I've tried. I'd rather have the real thing."

"Really?" Eames says, and Arthur can see him smirking in his reflection on the screen. "Not even this, Arthur?" he asks smugly, and he hits 'play' on a new video, leaning back in the computer chair and looking at Arthur expectantly. Arthur sighs and humors him, watching the small window.

The scene opens on a barren white room, soft male moans reverberating through the speakers; the camera pans down to reveal a lithe man struggling in tight rope on the floor, his legs spread wide in a frogtie. Knots and intricate designs bind him up, nearly cover all of him, and when he turns onto his stomach, he reveals the buttplug tucked inside of him.

Mouth going dry, Arthur's eyebrows shoot up; he may or may not lean a little closer, and beside him, he barely registers Eames teasing, "I see that's got your attention." Arthur lets himself be pulled onto Eames's lap as he watches the man in the video, entranced. In his ear, a low voice purrs hotly, "Would you like me to do that to you, darling? Truss you up like a pretty little package?"

Arthur shudders, and the scene changes on the video. The man has been propped up on a pile of pillows, another man kneeling by his side and stroking the bound man's cock. Eames works Arthur's pants open and pulls his mostly limp cock out, and Arthur gasps hoarsely.

"Do you want that, Arthur?" Eames asks, voice rough. "To touch you and tease you while you're completely helpless to me?"

Arthur groans as Eames strokes him to hardness, and he watches, completely enraptured, as the bound man on the screen enjoys three wet fingers in place of the plug. Eames's rough, calloused hands pump his cock, and Arthur frantically shrugs off his button-up.

"Way too fuckin'," he manages, but moans as Eames thumbs the head of his cock and, with his other hand, simultaneously rolls one nipple between two fingers.

"Warm, kitten?" Eames whispers, and Arthur rolls his hips into his hot touch, gripping the edge of the desk.

"C'mon," he grunts, thrusting his hips up into Eames's fist. A wet mouth attaches to his neck and sucks, and when Arthur glances at the screen, the bound man is getting fucked face-first against those plush pillows. For the briefest instant, he replaces the two of them with himself and Eames; rope tight against his skin as Eames sinks into his waiting hole, screaming into the pillows and coming untouched.

Arthur loses it.

Moments later, when he comes back to himself, Eames has cleaned him up with a few tissues and fastened his pants up. Mouth dry, Arthur swallows and sits up, still in Eames's lap, and blinks.

"I," he says articulately, and he swallows thickly.

Eames smiles and pecks his cheek. "Nothing to be ashamed of, Arthur," he says softly, "we all have our kinks, don't we?" His smile, warm and genuine, coaxes the tense line in Arthur's shoulders to relaxation. "And yours is really rather wonderful," Eames says with a wink. "I can't wait to explore it with you."

Arthur smirks and touches the collar of his shirt, lowering his voice. "Maybe you could tell me about your kinks sometime."

Eames grins. "But of course, pet." He strokes Arthur's thigh, and Arthur stays there a bit longer, enjoying Eames's arm secure around his waist.


	22. cooking/baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames narrows his eyes at the half-eaten brownie between his fingers. "What is this," he demands, overdramatic and shaking the treat back and forth. "What is this abomination of nature you've made, Arthur?"

Eames returns from the bank, and upon opening their front door, he's immediately assaulted by the rich smell of chocolate, the house comfortably warm compared to the winter chill outside.

"Mm," he purrs, shrugging off his coat and hanging it, "are you baking something, love?"

From the kitchen, Arthur calls, "Brownies. They just came out."

Eames grins and goes to him, and Arthur has deposited a dozen little squares of dark, decadent-looking brownies onto a cooling rack. As Arthur sets the soiled pan in the sink, Eames plucks ones of the brownies from the rack.

"They're hot," Arthur warns without looking, and the brownie does indeed burn his fingertips. Eames juggles the dessert between his hands and wraps it in a napkin before taking a big bite.

Arthur leans against the edge of the sink and watches him, eyebrows raised and mouth pursed like he's fighting a smile.

Eames chews and stares at the brownie. It tastes... off. Not quite like it should. Sure, it's sweet and chocolatey, but it's not exactly right.

Eames stares at the half-eaten brownie between his fingers. "What is this," he demands, overdramatic and shaking the treat back and forth. "What is this abomination of nature you've made, Arthur?"

Arthur doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed. Instead, he actually laughs - a real, honest laugh that wrinkles his face and shows his dimples.

Setting down the brownie, Eames points at his face, still playing with him. "Oh no, you put those away," he says, smiling himself and poking Arthur's cheek until the dimples vanish. "What the buggering fuck is this?" He laughs now, he can't help it, not when Arthur is more or less giggling under his breath.

"C'mon," Arthur says, maybe chastises, and he picks up Eames's discarded brownie. "It can't be that bad."

As he takes a bite, Eames sing-songs, "Famous last words, darling."

He watches Arthur chew, and his face slowly morphs from intense scrutiny to wrinkle-nosed disgust. "Oh my God," he says as he drops it, like it poisoned him. "That's weird."

Eames is the one that laughs this time, if a little triumphantly. "What did you put in it?" he asks with a shake of his head.

Arthur sighs and holds up a crisp piece of paper he obviously printed off the computer. "They're gluten-free," he says in a defeated voice, but he's smiling, playing back.

Reaching out to touch his shoulder, Eames says solemnly, "Oh, Arthur, I forgive you."

Arthur snorts air out of his nose and stares at the brownies, a serious frown downturning his mouth. "I think one of our neighbors is a health nut," he muses. "We could give them to her."

Eames considers the mutant brownies with a sniff. "At least they'll be going to a good home," he says, pushing them away from himself.

Suddenly bustling into action, Arthur turns the oven back on and brings out a new baking dish. "I'm gonna make some real brownies now," he says, sardonic, and Eames grins.

"You're the absolute best," he says, wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist and sidling up behind him.

"Uh-huh," Arthur says flatly, "and guess who my baking assistant is."

Moving to stand beside him, Eames rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. "Of course, my love," he says dutifully, "what do you need?"

As he doles out instructions, Arthur ducks his head to hide a smile, but Eames sees it nonetheless.


	23. back to back badasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's their first job together; of course things go to shit.

Arthur's sitting at a makeshift desk in the middle of a closed, gutted out restaurant when he hears the little bell attached to the back door ring. He doesn't pay it any mind.

"Arthur," he hears Cobb say, and Arthur glances at him from over his shoulder. "This is Eames."

Cobb gestures to a man beside him that Arthur doesn't recognize. The stranger is slightly shorter than them both but bulkier. His clothes are ill-fitting on his large frame, his face unshaven, and he beams at Arthur with a snaggle-toothed grin.

Arthur raises his eyebrows. " _This_ is the forger?" he says flatly. _The one everyone's talking about?_ he doesn't say, because Eames looks like the sort of person that would be entirely too pleased to know that everyone is talking about him.

"Your forger now," Eames says in a drawling English accent, and he goes over to clap a hand on Arthur's shoulder, like they're already friends or something. "It's a pleasure meeting you, Arthur." Eames very nearly purrs his name, and Arthur looks away from him, ducking out from under his touch.

Shutting him out, Arthur says without feeling, "Likewise."

*

The mark is an elderly man with a lucrative but unfinished novel series, lying in a hospital with a chemotherapy drip and no chance of recovery. The client is his only daughter, desperate for the conclusion of her father's series before he passes, but he refuses to tell it and physically can't finish it himself. A simple enough extraction; two levels and four team members.

Their architect, an arrogant but effective man named Rashid, designs the first level as a boardwalk amusement park. They hire Eames to impersonate the author's favorite grand-daughter, a sweet, tiny thing called Lucie, whom the old man dedicates every new installment to.

Sometimes, Arthur watches Eames practice, follows him into a house of mirrors and tries to find the real one. Sometimes the girl is too blonde, too short, her cheeks too round; other times, she takes his breath away. Once, a flawless Lucie grabs his hand, and pulls at the bottom of her gingham shorts, looking at her feet. "Arthur," she says quietly, and for the briefest moment, he forgets that he's actually talking to Eames and not a little girl.

"Yes?" he says, trying to keep his voice level, but the sight of a child makes him want to do anything but hold himself back.

 _But it's not a child,_ he reminds himself, steely.

Not-Lucie looks up at him, bites her lip, and gestures for him to lean in close. "I have a secret," she says, "so don't tell anyone, 'kay?"

Arthur can't help obliging her; he gets down to one knee and gives her a small smile. "What is it?" he asks, gentling his tone on instinct.

She leans in on her tiptoes and whispers beside his ear, "I think you're _really_ cute. Like, like a prince!"

Jerking backwards, Arthur stares wide-eyed at her, half-expects to suddenly find Eames, but he still sees Lucie. She covers her face with a fit of giggles and runs off. Faraway, he hears music echoing through the sky.

When he wakes, Arthur turns his head to find Eames smiling at him with his too-plush mouth, and Arthur quickly takes the cannula from his own arm, standing and adjusting his clothes before stiffly returning to his work station.

*

Getting access to the mark for the time necessary is easy, as they expected, especially since his daughter works with them instead of against them.

The mark's peaceful projections fill Rashid's creation; there are squeals of delight along the boardwalk as rides spin and screech along their tracks. The smell of the sea fills Arthur's senses as he subtly follows the mark and Eames-as-Lucie. Sometimes, he notices Cobb among the crowd, slipping in and out of rides and stands; just behind him, Arthur stands up as tall as he can when he thinks he sees a beautiful, familiar brunette woman following Cobb. When Arthur doesn't see her again, he turns his attention back to Eames and the mark.

As not-Lucie gnaws at a frozen, chocolate-dipped banana, she asks in the innocently random way children do, "Grandpa, why do you write your books for me?"

He smiles and squeezes her hand. "Because I love you, little Lucie," he says warmly. "You're my _muse_ , sweetheart. Do you know what that means?"

Lucie pauses mid-chew and shakes her head, owl-eyed.

The old man leans down and kisses the top of her messy blonde head. "You inspire me, sweet pea," he says quietly, affectionately. "You are the light of my life. You know my book's main character? Lucille?"

Lucie nods, searching his face and genuinely listening to him. Arthur watches her, watches Eames, in silent awe.

The mark hugs her to his chest. "I made her because of you," he says with tears in his eyes.

Winding her tiny arms around him, Lucie squeezes him. "Really?" She gasps loudly. "What happens to her?" she squeaks, tugging at his shirt. "Will you tell me the end, Grandpa? Pleaseplease _please_ can I know?"

He smiles at her, and Arthur thinks they might not even need the second level they prepared.

Then, dark clouds roll in, and Arthur shakes himself out of whatever spell Eames's performance put him under. The boardwalk has thinned out; the projections converge onto the beach, where Rashid holed himself up in a snack shack, and-

"Shit," Arthur breathes. Mallorie fucking Cobb (not real, _not real_ ) is at the head of them all, and Arthur can see the glint of a knife even from so far away.

Eames-as-Lucie pulls on the mark's arm. "Grandpa," she murmurs, frightened, "what's going on."

Without even thinking, Arthur changes his clothes. Between one food stand and the next, he transforms his casual beach wear to a dark blue police uniform. He pulls his shoulders back and approaches the mark. "Sir," he says, all authority, "this area isn't safe, let me escort you to a secure location." The mark nods with wide, terrified eyes, and Arthur hurries the three of them to a safe room Rashid designed they all thought they wouldn't need.

He finds their architect and Cobb already in the same room, and Eames-as-Lucie pulls the mark onto a sofa and climbs into his lap. She holds his face in her little hands and whispers to him, trembling, and Arthur glowers at Cobb.

 _Now what?_ he mouths, and Cobb squints at him. Rashid hovers near the door and keeps glancing at it, like the projections know they're all there.

"Give me the cannula," Lucie's voice says sternly, and everyone looks at her. To the mark, she says, "Grandpa, everything'll be okay." He looks at her glassy-eyed and barely aware of what's happening. She holds out one hand for the PASIV line, and everyone moves into action at once.

Rashid sets the PASIV on a coffee table, tugs out all the lines, and everyone but him hooks up. Eames-as-Lucie takes care of the mark before climbing off his lap and standing behind the couch. The mark is out.

Arthur sits back against a far wall, Cobb beside the old man. Rashid hits the button in the center of the PASIV, and the quiet squeal of the device is the last thing Arthur hears; the last thing he sees is Eames - the real Eames, now - smirking at him.

*

The second level is an elementary school like Lucie's. Arthur places the mark in a soundproof classroom, where his projection of Lucie draws and laughs with him.

Arthur goes straight to the library, where Cobb is already searching the shelves for the mark's manuscript. Eames watches the windows and only glances up when Arthur arrives. Arthur brings his own tension into the room.

"I'll cover you," Arthur says to Cobb, "give you guys some time to finish here," 

"No, that's bloody stupid," Eames says with a grimace. "You're the dreamer. If you go down, the whole dreamscape goes down with you. I'll stay, you and Cobb finish."

Arthur outright laughs, clenching his hands at his sides. "Forgive me, Mr. Eames," he says, not even attempting to sound apologetic, "but this is our first job with you, and we're not putting our lives in your hands based on your unfavorable reputation alone."

Narrowing his eyes, Eames smiles mirthlessly. "If my reputation is so unfavorable," he challenges, "then whyever did you hire me, Arthur?"

"Whyever isn't a fucking word--"

"Enough," Cobb says, looking between them darkly. "Arthur, go with Eames and draw away the projections. I'll be here."

And that is apparently that. Cobb stays in the library, searching the shelves, and Arthur opens the door for Eames, drawing his favored Glock from the back of his pants. They barricade Cobb inside the library, and Arthur gestures with a toss of his head for Eames to lead. With a calculating smile, Eames starts down the hall, drawing a Beretta from inside his jacket.

"Want to keep me in your sights, Arthur?" he asks, almost purring, and Arthur hates the way he says his name.

"Don't want you shooting me in the head or anything," he says casually, holding his Glock at the ready.

Eames chuckles. "If I wanted to double-cross you and Cobb," he says smugly, "I would have done it already, and you wouldn't even know until I was long gone."

Arthur snorts and goes quiet, keeping an eye on Eames as they cross the small campus. Once they reach the modest fountain in the center, they shoot into the air to draw them away from Cobb, then they make a mad dash for the cafeteria.

Eames shoulders the door open, slamming it behind Arthur. "Bar all the doors but one," Arthur orders, tucking his gun away and dragging one of the long rectangular tables to the center of the room. He flips it on its side, making one wall, and he does the same with three other tables, forming a square for himself and Eames to hole up in.

Arthur vaults over one side of the barrier and drops low, pulling out his Glock again. Moments later, Eames joins him with a grin.

"Nice work," he says, and Arthur ignores the compliment, unsure if it's genuine.

"Did you block all the doors?" he asks instead. Eames nods. "Even the kitchen?" Eames's face falls, and Arthur grinds his teeth. "Eames," he growls, and Eames laughs. 

"Bloody hell, Arthur, can't you take a joke?" he says with a smirk, checking his Beretta.

Arthur narrows his eyes and leans close, lowering his voice to say, "That's not funny, asshole, now's not the-"

The side doors of the cafeteria suddenly jostle loudly against their barricades, and Arthur immediately trains his sights there, bringing his gun up.

They wait in tense silence, Eames warm at his side, and Arthur tries not to think about him, about how he feels that close, about how he _smells_ -

The front doors burst open, and projections squeeze into the cafeteria. Arthur whirls on them, swiftly dropping three projections with exactly three bullets. Eames, nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, does the same, filling bodies with bullets before dropping behind the barrier.

"Reloading," he announces, and Arthur stays close, spacing out his kills so they won't have to reload at the same time and leave themselves wide open.

"I've got you," he says, steely and focused. Projections drop like flies among gunfire.

He can hear the smirk in Eames's voice when he says, "I'd love to have you as well, Arthur."

The split second Arthur takes to glare death into Eames costs him; pain rips through his shoulder, jolting down his arm, tearing a scream from his throat. He collapses against the barrier, gripping the bullet wound and looking wildly at the entrance to the cafeteria. Mal stands in the doorway with a smoking gun, a luscious smile on her face, her eyes empty.

Eames moves close, drawing Arthur's attention, nearly covering him with his body. He shoots Mal in the head, and Arthur gasps quietly when she drops, hates watching her die.

"All right?" Eames asks, his voice nearly shrill, and Arthur tears his gaze from Mal's lifeless body.

He examines his shoulder, gritting his teeth. "Through and through," he says, struggling to lift his arm, but pain thrashes him as he does it. He bites back another shout, sitting up and taking his Glock in his other hand. "Fucked it up," he says, all rough grit, "can't move it."

"How are you with the other arm?" Eames asks carefully, as if fearing he might insult him.

With a snort, Arthur heaves himself up and takes down two projections with a couple of headshots; Eames grins at him as Arthur drops back down behind the barrier.

"Brilliant," Eames says, giddy.

The side doors of the cafeteria rattle louder, and Arthur faces them with his gun raised, pressing his back against Eames's for support.

"How long does Cobb need?" Eames asks between firing.

Arthur intently watches the side doors, his entire body tight with anticipation. "As long as we can give him," he says thickly.

Eames pushes against him, their backs aligned, and Arthur can't ignore him now, can't ignore the way he smells like musk and cologne. Eames's body warmth seeps through Arthur's jacket, and Arthur tries to pick up his injured arm just to think about something other than _Eames_. He grits his teeth and groans.

"Okay back there?" Eames asks, sounding more concerned than he should, and Arthur's convinced he's only concerned about getting paid. 

"Fine," he grinds out, and the side doors get shoved open. Arthur shoots, pushing back against Eames for leverage, and he feels the kickback of Eames's Beretta as he takes down projections. Amid gunfire and blood, Arthur hears the music playing from the cafeteria speakers, and he exhales heavily, drooping against Eames.

Eames's hands touch his face, calloused but gentle, the last sensation Arthur registers before waking.


	24. arguing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames never thought he would start to resent any kink of a lover, especially Arthur's.

Eames props Arthur's long legs onto his shoulders and thrusts into him in one smooth motion, groaning, and Arthur inhales sharply, clutching Eames's tattooed arms and bearing down on his cock.

"God," Arthur says thickly, his erection curved over his stomach and leaking, " _fuck_."

Eames pounds into him, holds his hips in a bruising grip and grunts as Arthur's breath hitches with every slide into him.

"Could you," Arthur groans, and he brings his arms over his head, "could you?"

Setting his jaw, Eames reaches down and around Arthur's legs, shoving Arthur's wrists into the mattress, and Arthur cries out, throwing his head back.

" _Eames_ ," he sobs, and Eames purses his lips as he ruts into him faster and harder. Arthur yells with every thrust, straining against Eames's grip; Eames holds him tighter, and Arthur actually _whimpers_. Eames never sees him like this unless he holds Arthur down or ties his hands. And why not? Why is it only now?

Arthur arches and shudders all over, gasping and coming on his stomach, rolling his hips through his orgasm. Eames buries his cock deep inside him and muffles a moan as he comes.

Panting and glassy-eyed, Arthur doesn't seem to register anything except how fucked out he is. He shifts slightly and sort of mewls when Eames pulls himself out and cleans Arthur up.

For a few moments, Eames half-sits up and watches him, waiting for Arthur to come back to himself. At last, Arthur turns his head to look at him, still flushed but steadying his breath. A wrinkle appears between his eyebrows.

"You okay?" he asks, voice wrecked.

Eames smiles and lies impulsively, "Of course, kitten." But he says it too sweetly, and Arthur blinks out of his sexed out stupor.

"What's wrong?" he asks, sitting up and supporting himself on his elbows. "You came, right?"

Snorting, Eames leans against the bed's headboard and interlocks his fingers over his stomach, not looking at him. "What, didn't you feel it?" he asks airily, his voice pitching up.

There's a tense pause, then Arthur mutters, "Why don't you just tell me what's wrong."

Eames looks at him sharply, feeling his nostrils flare. He holds Arthur's gaze, breathing hard with his mouth tight. At last, he says, "Are you-- Fuck, Arthur, why do you only get like that, all bloody desperate and shit, when I hold you down or tie you up?"

Arthur's face completely shifts from open-faced concern to blank indifference, like he's steeling himself. Eames huffs, "Why've you got a stick up your arse every other time? When it's just the two of us without the fucking ties or the domination?"

Arthur goes quiet, and it's suddenly as if they hadn't even had sex. " I thought you didn't mind," he says quietly, guarded.

"At first, no," Eames says truthfully. "But now every time we're intimate, I have to shove you down or tie you to the bed to make you come! Maybe I just want to be with _you_ , without all that stuff."

Arthur looks intently at his lap. "I don't know if I can be like that any other way," he says slowly, "be that way I get when you dominate me."

His chest tight, Eames climbs off the bed and paces the room. "I don't get it," he says heatedly, "I don't bloody get it."

His voice thick and frustrated, Arthur asks, "You think I do?"

Eames whirls on him. "If you don't even get your own kinks," he nearly shouts, "then how the buggering fuck am I supposed to?"

Clenching his fists and sitting up, Arthur yells, "I don't expect you to understand!"

Breathing heavily, Eames stops pacing to open his mouth but no words come out. With a growl, he storms out of the room and slams the door after him.


	25. making up afterwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets better.

While Eames is gone, Arthur makes dinner in silence. He cuts chicken, browns it on the stovetop, grips the counter and tells himself to breathe. He keeps looking at the digital clock on the microwave and wringing his hands.

By the time he finishes dinner, it's been an hour. Arthur covers the food and puts it in the fridge, his appetite lost, then he sits in the living room and waits, looking at his phone and waiting for a call or text that never comes.

Finally, he hears the tumblers in the front door unlocking, and he gets to his feet, wavering in the middle of the living room. Eames looks tired but not angry when he comes in. He slowly shuts the door behind him and faces Arthur.

They stand at opposite ends of the room for a long moment, and Arthur finally clears his throat. "Where'd you go?" he asks, keeping his voice level.

Eames won't look at him. "Went for a drive," he says, his voice rough, and Arthur's not sure if it's from silence or yelling. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, at a loss for words.

"There's dinner in the fridge if you're hungry," Arthur says at last, making an aborted gesture towards the kitchen.

Eames frowns and shifts his gaze about, still won't look at him. "I'm not, thanks," he says stiffly. Slowly, he comes further into their house and sits on the sofa. Arthur does the same, keeping some distance between them. Arthur watches him and doesn't know what to say. Every few moments, Eames opens his mouth as if to speak, but then he clicks it shut a second later. He sighs, rubs his face, and sits back against the couch. His head lolling to one side, Eames finally looks at him.

"Okay," he says slowly, his gaze piercing into Arthur, and Arthur suddenly understands how effortlessly he forges; Eames looks at someone and sees into their soul. "Try and... explain it. Why you like the domination and such." Arthur sighs heavily, and Eames presses, "Please, darling, just try."

Running a hand through his hair, Arthur clenches his fingers at his roots and stares at the floor. "For a long time," he starts with a frown, "I've been... kind of obsessed with upholding a certain image. Especially once I started working in dreamshare." He grimaces and thinks of his first job _ever_ , of their extractor laughing, _Hey, when do you need to get back to class, kid?_ He thinks of his fourth job, when the architect looked him up and down, smirked and said, _So what gay porn is missing its twink-y little star?_ Clenching his fists, Arthur says fiercely, "I _know_ what I look like: the face that I have, how young I looked. How young I _still_ look."

He shuts his eyes, inhales, exhales slowly. With another breath, he looks at Eames and gestures vaguely at himself. "So I remade myself," he says, keeping his voice level. "I cut my hair, and I bought a whole new wardrobe. I stood up straighter, and I didn't take anyone's shit." He searches Eames's face, and it's like Eames is seeing him for the first time. "I put on a mask, Eames. I built a wall, and now I can't tear it down unless you-" His voice breaks off, and he gets quiet. "You know." He shakes his head, his chest clenching. "Sex is never as good unless you do that stuff to me."

Eames seems to consider his words for a long time, his plush mouth downturned in a frown. There's a pregnant pause before he says evenly, "I don't understand how one time can feel amazing but the next time can't."

Arthur exhales through his nose, his lips pursed tightly, and his throat feels like it's constricting. "And I'm _sorry_ for that, okay?" he says heatedly. "I'm fucking sorry that I can't come as hard unless you hold me down or fucking _tie me to the bed_. I wish I could feel the same pleasure all across the goddamned board--" He laughs mirthlessly. "--I _really_ fucking do, Eames. I _want_ to feel amazing and fucked out every time I have sex with you, _but I don't._ And it makes me feel like a piece of shit that I can't." His words catch and he hears his own voice shaking. Eames watches him, his face torn. Arthur can't look at him, it hurts too much, and he takes a steadying breath. "I feel so fucking _shitty_ because my stupid fucking kink is _ruining_ us," he says softly, and Arthur feels his eyes welling up. He holds his breath, looking away and pursing his mouth. He wants to fold in on himself, feels like everything's collapsing inside of him. He blinks hard and hot tears slip down his face. Exhaling shakily, he feels suddenly, desperately alone. Blindly, he reaches for Eames, and when a warm hand clutches his, everything tense inside him releases; Arthur sighs brokenly, and he faces Eames again. Eames squeezes his fingers, and something breaks down inside Arthur.

With that simple touch, Arthur feels less like he's drowning, and everything clicks into place.

"I'm vulnerable," he says abruptly, lifting his head to stare at Eames with wide eyes. When Eames blinks at him wordlessly, Arthur repeats, "I'm _vulnerable_. That's the connection. Why I like being held down, tied up, why it feels so good, why I'm so needy. You make me vulnerable and I _need you_." He swallows. "Right now I'm upset and vulnerable, so I feel like I need you, and I don't care how I look. When you tie me up, I'm turned on and can't move and _vulnerable_ , then I'm desperate for you." He feels so light, now, breathless with this epiphany. "I need to feel _vulnerable_ to be _entirely_ with you."

Eames's face lifts as he catches on. "Okay," he says warmly, spurring Arthur on, "what else makes you feel vulnerable?"

"Besides bondage and crying?" Arthur laughs, wiping his face.

Eames smiles and cups his cheek. "Yeah, love," he says, sounding immensely relieved. "Think about it."

Arthur spends weeks thinking about it.

When Eames is above him, caging him in with his thick arms, Arthur feels small and defenseless. Or when Eames palms the back of his head, grips his hair, Arthur immediately goes to that headspace that lets him moan louder, lets him _beg_. Without a crisp suit, Arthur feels younger, more exposed, like a knight without his armor; when Eames shoves his jeans down over his ass and cups it, Arthur doesn't fight, just melts and gives in, pliant under his hands. If Eames leaves him half-dressed, pulls his pants and underwear down just far enough to fuck him, it leaves Arthur a flushed and groaning mess. When Eames rims him, spreads his asscheeks wide with his hands and licks into him, Arthur shudders and withers in their sheets, tears sticking to his lashes.

Or when Eames spends long moments necking him, kissing and sucking at his throat, Arthur turns to mush. (It must be an instinct thing; that's his jugular, Eames could really hurt him, but he doesn't. He takes care of Arthur, makes him feel good, leaves wonderful red marks on pale skin.) Whenever they try a new position, or a position they rarely enjoy, Arthur _has_ to trust him, and he _does_ , clutches Eames's hand as he's fucked over the kitchen counter. If Eames fucks him face-first, Arthur can't stop moaning; every thrust hits his prostate _just fucking right_ , and it feels so damn good he doesn't care that he's flushed and sweaty and salivating all over their pillows.

Sometimes, if he doesn't go into it with a teasing mindset, Arthur can ride Eames and feel _very_ vulnerable, writhing atop Eames's thick cock; an intense grey-blue gaze heavy on him, Eames's fingers touching and teasing him all over, Arthur loses himself. When he comes home a little tipsy and Eames has to guide him to bed, Arthur falls against the sheets and needs Eames's hands on him to steady him, whimpering and wanton. When he's just woken up or he's about to fall asleep, if Eames touches his cock, Arthur all but whines for it, turning onto his stomach and spreading his legs.

And Eames is perfectly content to do that for him.


	26. sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Phillipa get colds, and Cobb calls bloody Arthur for help.

Eames sits awkwardly in Dom Cobb's living room, slowly rocking back and forth in an armchair.

Phillipa and James are bundled up together on the sofa, a fuzzy blanket tucked under their chins. They sniffle with little red noses, puffy eyes blinking away drowsy wetness. They cough weakly and drink orange juice, James clutching a sippy cup and Phillipa holding a slightly less childish cup.

"I'm not a baby," she protested when her father tried to hand her a cup like James's, and Cobb blinked at her before shuffling back into the kitchen.

Now, she drinks from a twisty straw, content.

"I brought medicine," Eames hears Arthur say from the kitchen. "They won't like it, though."

"Thank you," Cobb sighs.

Eames glances at them, and his stomach sort of twists at how close they stand to each other, how comfortable Arthur is with the other man. He tells himself he should have no reason to be jealous, Arthur couldn't possibly have any romantic feelings for Dominick fucking Cobb. Arthur probably has more romantic feelings for his Armani and his Hugo Boss wardrobe. Besides, there's absolutely no way Cobb would _ever_ be interested in Arthur, in any man... most likely.

Musing, Eames quietly watches them with a grimace, his observant eyes catching on the way Arthur leans into him, gives Cobb one hundred percent of his attention. Arthur's dark eyes search Cobb's face, clearly attentive to him.

"Need anything else?" Arthur asks, putting the medicine in the fridge.

Cobb wrings his hands, his brow furrowed. "No, I don't think so," he says slowly, like he's still considering the answer.

Almost absentmindedly, Arthur wets two small cloths with cold water before going over to James and Phillipa. They blink up at him sleepily, and he smiles. "How ya feelin', guys?" he asks softly, and he meticulously folds the washcloths into small rectangles, setting one on each of their foreheads.

"I'm okay," Phillipa says, articulating each word as if to prove she's feeling better. "Thank you, Arthur," she sighs, shutting her eyes.

James reaches up and holds the cool cloth against his face, managing a weak, toothy smile. "Feels nice," he squeaks. 

Arthur smiles a little wider and affectionately brushes his hand over their hair. "Tell your dad to call me if you need anything, okay?" he says, firm but warm.

The two of them nod together, then Arthur turns to Eames and motions with a tilt of his head to say they're leaving. Eames rises and waits for him at the door.

"Thanks," Cobb says again. "When James woke up screaming he couldn't see, I-- you know."

"I know," Arthur says, gentle and quiet. "If it happens again, take a wet cloth and wipe over his eyelids. It's just mucus and stuff keeping them shut. Common flu symptom."

"All right."

With a final nod, Arthur leads Eames out of Cobb's house, and they climb into their car. Eames drives them home and anxiously twists the wheel under his hands.

"Arthur," he asks evenly, "did we really have to come over?"

Arthur sighs and says, "I know what you're thinking, and yeah, he knows how to take care of his kids. It's just been a while, and I think he kinda freaked out when they got sick."

Eames purses his lips. "Actually," he says curtly, "I meant that-- Well, did he have to call you? Why not the kids' grandfather?" He feels Arthur look at him and clears his throat but waits for a response. 

"He's my friend," Arthur says, voice thick. "If he asks me for help, I give it to him."

Eames snorts and mutters, "He doesn't deserve your loyalty, darling."

Arthur makes a sound like he's laughing, but it's painfully sardonic. "Look," he says flatly, "I know he's done some dumb shit, but I forgave him and it's fine. Next time I go over, you can stay home if you want."

At a red light, Eames looks at him and touches his leg, feeling deflated. "Arthur," he says, more softly, "of course I'll go with you. Not for him, but for you." He pauses, watching Arthur's tense face. "And maybe for those children, too. They're sweet babies." Eames smiles and jokes, "They definitely didn't get that from their father."

This time, Arthur huffs a genuine laugh, and his face lifts. "Definitely," he agrees, and he holds Eames's hand the rest of the drive home.


	27. moving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur owns a studio apartment in Paris. He has a loft in New York and a high-rise apartment in Milan. There's also a condo down the street from his mother's house in his name.
> 
> He knows that Eames has a flat in Mombasa and another in Barcelona. He knows about the little cabin in Siberia and the traditional, riverside house in Takayama.
> 
> But this house in Los Angeles, a small and modern two-bedroom home with room to expand, this one is theirs.

Arthur sits on the sofa in their living room and drinks a citrusy beer. The television hangs blankly on the wall across from him, wires dangling from it, but he's content in the relative silence. There are boxes pushed up against the walls, each labeled with a room and a short description under it, like, 'living room - decor' or 'kitchen - cookware.'

Down the hall, he hears the shower spraying water accompanied by Eames's half-singing, half-humming rendition of "Bring Him Home" from _Les Misérables_. Arthur smiles and drinks.

The water shuts off, and there's a brief moment of shuffling before he hears Eames curse, "Ah, bugger." Louder, he calls, "Darling? Could you bring me a towel? I forgot to grab one."

Arthur heaves himself up and sets his beer on a coaster. "Sure, yeah," he says, searching the cardboard boxes until he finds the one labeled, 'misc. - towels.'

Kneeling down and opening it up, he removes the small washcloths and hand towels before finding the larger bath and beach towels at the bottom. On top of those, though, is one towel that can't be longer than a yard or wider than a foot. It's thin and frayed at the edges, the sort of reject that Arthur can't remember the origin of.

Maybe it's the beer, but he can't help thinking about this small towel low on Eames's hips and stretched across his thighs; he swallows, thinking about the outline of Eames's wet cock through the flimsy cotton.

Taking that too-small towel out, Arthur closes the box and shoves it in a corner like he's hiding evidence. He walks into the bathroom and puts on a perturbed face. "I couldn't find the good towels," he says, keeping his voice level, "sorry." He feels his eyebrows raising.

Eames slides open the shower door, dripping wet and wiping his face with his hand, quickly glancing at Arthur and probably taking a moment to absorb the words. "Oh, it's fine, love," he says easily, taking the towel from Arthur. "I known it's still a mess around here."

Arthur leans against the bathroom counter and watches him dry off, sort of breathless.

"Where did we even get this?" Eames laughs, toweling off his broad chest, black ink glistening. Fleetingly, Arthur thinks of curling his fingers in Eames's damp chest hair, barely registers that Eames even spoke until a moment later.

Arthur manages a weak laugh with him, his gaze stuck on droplets of water as they trail down Eames's thick, chiseled stomach. "I have no idea," he says truthfully. "Maybe my mom hid it in one of her leftover care packages."

Eames hums, musing and bending slightly to dry his legs before wrapping the towel around his hips; Arthur's mouth goes dry. The real image is better than his imagination; water slides down Eames's skin from his hair, the towel stretched across his muscular thighs. With a smile, Eames starts lumbering out of the bathroom. Before Eames passes him, Arthur grabs him by the neck and kisses him so hard it might bruise Eames's gorgeous mouth.

Between frantic kisses, Eames grins against his mouth and says, "You're a bloody _liar_."

Arthur curls his fingers in Eames's wet hair, grunting mid-kiss, "Hm?"

Eames laughs, breaking the kiss to pin Arthur against the counter and suck at his neck. "The towels," Eames says against his throat, harmlessly scraping his teeth over the skin. "You found them, you little minx, and you gave me _this_ tiny thing."

Face feeling hot, Arthur loses his train of thought as Eames gently bites on his Adam's apple. He shudders, exhales, and mutters, "I dunno what you're..." He trails off and groans as Eames rolls his hips against Arthur's.

" _Please,_ Arthur," Eames purrs, "you should know that I've cataloged all your tells." He lifts Arthur's tee and rolls his nipples between thick fingers, smirking. "When you're lying," he says smugly, "your eyebrows go up into your bloody hairline."

Arthur's head rolls back as he clutches the edge of the counter for support, his knees nearly giving out when Eames leans down to mouth at his chest. "Well," he manages, his voice pitching up, "now that I know what it is, I'll be able to - _oh_ , fuck - control it...."

Eames laughs around one of Arthur's nipples and pulls away with an audible _pop_. "I'll still know," he says, purposely mysterious, then he straightens up and whips off the towel, leaving him nude in the middle of their bathroom. "Now why don't you do what you came in here to do, pet," he says, voice rough, and Arthur breathes a little too loudly through his nose.

Slowly, he gets to his knees and takes Eames's hips in his hands. Eames clutches at his hair and groans as Arthur takes him into his mouth.


	28. proposing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames stares at the tiny velvet box between them, his heart racing. Discreetly, he reaches into his coat pocket and grips his totem, runs his fingers over the etching. 
> 
> This isn't a dream.

Eames sips champagne and smiles over the glass at Arthur, who's sitting across from him and looking impeccable in a dark blue suit. Arthur swirls his champagne and looks through him, as if he's deep in thought. The restaurant's gold-tinged light makes Arthur look like he's glowing.

"So what are we celebrating?" Eames asks, and Arthur blinks at him, coming back to himself. To clarify, Eames nods towards the bottle on their table. "Champagne, darling?"

Arthur smiles, easy and mysterious. "Five years ago today," he says warmly, "was the day we met."

Eames feels his eyebrows raising, and he sits back, struck speechless. Had it been so long already? Arthur still looks the bloody same, young and confident and breathtaking. 

He ducks his head and grins, dimpling. "You drove me up a fucking wall then," he says, chuckling, "but you grew on me." Arthur looks at him, his face open and soft. "And now, I can't imagine my life without you." He exhales and sits up, suddenly serious as he brings his hands to his lap. "So I want to be with you," he says solemnly, and with all the professional tact of a point man, he takes something from his pocket and sets it on the table. "Only you, always."

Eames stares at the tiny velvet box between them, his heart racing. Discreetly, he reaches into his coat pocket and grips his totem, runs his fingers over the etching. 

This isn't a dream.

Arthur searches his face, waiting, and Eames slowly pulls the box closer to him. His chest feels tight as he flips open the box, and he finds a gold band nestled in a satin pillow. Speechless, he looks at Arthur, who holds his gaze.

"Will you?" Arthur asks quietly, tense and far too grave for this.

Eames swallows and takes the ring, turning it in his palm. He thinks of the first moment he saw Arthur, straight-laced and unsmiling but beautiful. At that moment, Eames wanted nothing more than to bed him. Now, though, after a thousand sweet kisses and a hundred hidden, dimpled smiles, Eames just wants to be near him.

Slipping the ring onto his finger, Eames reaches for Arthur's hand and squeezes it tight. "Nothing would make me happier," he says, and Arthur's rigid demeanor melts away with a blinding smile.

"Yeah?" he breathes, and Eames notices the silver band on his ring finger. Arthur must have slipped it on while he was waiting for Eames's answer.

"Yes, love," he says, swiping his thumb over Arthur's ring before bringing Arthur's hand to his mouth to kiss the band. "A thousand, million times yes."

Arthur beams at him, blinking away wetness gathering in his dark, lovely eyes.


	29. getting married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They agree to walk from opposite sides of the room and meet in the middle at the altar, each with their mothers by their side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest-starring the fabulous Helen Mirren as Mrs. Eames.

Arthur cards his hands through his hair for the hundredth time, critically eyeing his reflection in the mirror. If even one strand falls out of place, he exhales furiously through his nose and tucks it back. His breath feels constantly caught in his throat, everything looks wrong on him, and when he's not adjusting himself, he's sitting and rolling his totem. Over and over, it falls on the loaded side, but he keeps checking it anyway.

The door opens and Cobb slips into the suite, tugging at his cuffs with a frown. Arthur stares him down, and Cobb actually has the balls to _laugh_.

"Christ, Arthur," he says with a shake of his head, "you look like you're heading to the guillotine."

Arthur heaves an enormous sigh and drops his head in his hands, digging the heel of his palms against his eyes. "I know," he says heavily, "I feel like I'm gonna throw up and murder someone at the same time."

He feels a hand on his shoulder, offering comfort, and he looks up to see Cobb behind him. "It'll pass," he says softly, clear blue eyes faraway, "once you get up there, it's lightning fast." Arthur searches his face, imagining him pulling his hair out at his own wedding.

"Okay," he finally sighs, sitting back and just _breathing_ , "thanks."

Cobb smiles, pats his shoulder, and slips out. Arthur glances at the flute of champagne on the counter and downs it in one go.

*

There are exactly eight guests at their wedding. Mrs. Levine, Mrs. Eames, Dom plus James and Phillipa, Ariadne, Yusuf, and Saito (who had been invited more to be polite than anything else, but of course he shows up anyway). Outside of the small ceremony space, the California coast lies on one side and the majestic trees of the Big Sur area on the other, glimpsed through wide glass windows.

Instead of one of them "walking down the aisle," Arthur and Eames start at opposite sides of the room and meet in the middle at the altar, their mothers on their arms. Arthur's mom sobs and dabs at her face with a handkerchief, and once they reach the altar, he pulls away from her and kisses her forehead.

"Love you, Mom," he says softly, and she breaks down all over again, clutching his tuxedo and sniffling into her kerchief. At last, she drags herself away to sit down, where Mrs. Eames waits for her and squeezes her knee. (Comparatively, Mrs. Eames's make-up is impeccable and unsmeared.) Arthur faces Eames, his husband-to-be, and everything that had been tense and knotted inside of him before, melts away at the sight of this gorgeous man standing before him and reaching for his hand. Arthur grins, feeling suddenly light, like he might float away at any moment.

Dom was right. Their time at the altar is alarmingly brief. Before he knows it, they've exchanged rings, said 'I do,' and they're married.

Arthur grins as Eames leads him back to the suite to sign their wedding license, with the officiant and their mothers as their two witnesses. Eames signs first, then Arthur, and he can't stop looking at the way their names look together, a flawless combination of the two of them.

(And that, just deciding what surname to take, took a very serious conversation. They laid in bed together, snuggling and breathless after sex, when Arthur said suddenly, "Our names sound kind of awful together."

Eames laughed, round and boisterous. " _Darling_ ," he said with a grin, "you don't mean that."

Arthur stroked his chest and smiled. "They _do_ ," he protested. "Levine-Eames? There's like a valley of space in that hyphen, and Eames-Levine _barely_ sounds better."

Eames shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose," he said at last. "If you want, you could take my name, or I could take yours."

Sighing, Arthur sat up on his elbows and gave him a solemn look. "Listen," he said lowly, "I don't want one of us to take only the other's name. I've always thought it was shitty that the woman was expected to take the guy's name, like her identity's stripped from her and _the man_ puts his name on her like she belongs to him. And I don't want people at work to call either of us 'the wife' just because we took the other's name."

With furrowed brows, Eames opened his mouth, and Arthur lightly covered it to quiet it. "Hold on," he said softly. "Let me finish." He smiled. "I love your name. The thought of being called 'Mister Eames' alongside you makes me really happy..." He cupped Eames's face and searched his eyes. "But I want our name to be _ours_ , not just mine or yours. As bad as Levine-Eames or Eames-Levine sound, at least we'll belong to each other, you know?"

Eames brushed his hand through Arthur's hair and nodded. "I understand, love," he said genuinely. "If you truly want our names to be together, even if they don't sound perfect, I think we should be Arthur and Thomas Eames-Levine." He smiled. "And if you like the sound of Arthur Eames so much, perhaps I can call you Mister Eames at home."

Arthur felt his eyes crinkle as he grinned. "That'd be great," he laughed. "Professionally, though, I'd still like to be Arthur Levine." He paused. "If you don't mind."

Shaking his head, Eames said crisply, "Not at all, Arthur Levine. I wouldn't expect anything else.")

Back in the ceremony space, their officiant smiles at them and says to their small crowd, "I have the pleasure of introducing you all to Arthur and Thomas Eames-Levine." Everyone applauds, and Arthur _beams_ , feels his cheeks going sore from it. Eames reaches over and pinches his face before kissing him slowly, smiling. It feels like something warm and lovely unfurls in his chest as Eames touches his hip and pulls him close.

Their reception is brief, like the vows. Arthur and Eames have their first dance, then they each dance with their mothers. Arthur's mom glows, little bags under her eyes from crying, but she looks as wonderful as ever. "I'm so happy for you," she says, touching his face and tucking his hair behind his ear. "You look so happy."

Arthur ducks his head, still smiling (did he ever stop?). "I am," he says quietly, honestly. "I really am."

A minute later, he's dancing with Eames's mother, and she smiles throughout it, looking sort of forced. "I already warned Thomas what I would do if he hurt you," she says calmly, and Arthur clears his throat, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"Thank you," he says, and his voice pitches up like a question.

She raises a single eyebrow and says lowly, "And I'm going to tell the same to you." Innocently, she slides a finger along the collar of his white button-up, as if warm and affectionate. "If you hurt my son, I can't be responsible for what I do to you." She smiles serenely and touches his cheek. "Understood?"

Arthur meets her eyes and says, somehow evenly, "Yes, of course." When she smiles this time, it seems genuine.

At last, Arthur returns to Eames's arms for a final dance. "Your mother is terrifying," Arthur says beside his ear.

"Tell me about it," Eames deadpans, and Arthur stifles a laugh before kissing his _husband_.


	30. honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames sinks a couple million dollars of their wedding loot on a gorgeous luxury yacht, and they spend a couple weeks in the Mediterranean.

Eames stands at the helm of their yacht with a crooked captain's hat and an obnoxiously-large pair of sunglasses. The Mediterranean sun beats down on their white ship, his loud, touristy shirt billowing in the sea breeze through an open window. The buttons of his shirt undone, he proudly puffs his exposed chest out.

Behind him, he hears footsteps ascending the stairs from the lower deck, and he glances over his shoulder to see a shirtless Arthur come onto the deck, his silver band gleaming on his ring finger. His hair is free of product, tousled and wavy, and his swim trunks are tight on his arse and thighs.

Eames whistles at him and grins toothily, and Arthur drops into a playful little bow, a pleased smirk pulling at his mouth.

"Good God, Arthur," Eames purrs, tugging his husband against his side, "you look breathtaking."

Arthur curls his fingers in Eames's chest hair and kisses his jaw. "You're not so bad yourself," he says smugly, leaning against him.

Eames hums low in his throat and says warmly, "Why, thank you, darling." He turns his head, keeping his gaze on the clear blue waters in front of them as he pecks Arthur on the mouth. "Now," he says when he pulls away, "help me decide our first destination. Do you want to relax or 'party like a rockstar,' as they say?"

"Mm," Arthur intones, smiling and petting Eames's arms, "how about I make us some mimosas, and we can decide together?"

Beaming at him, Eames nips at his nose and says, "That sounds lovely."

His eyes wrinkling at the corners, Arthur dimples at him with a closed-mouth smile before sauntering to the other side of the deck to fix the drinks.

*

An hour later, they arrive at Valencia, Spain, and dock before going into the city, fully dressed; Arthur even wears bloody shorts and a short-sleeved button-up, even leaves his hair alone and doesn't bother putting in his contacts. Messy-haired and sporting black-rimmed glasses, Arthur holds his hand as they walk the streets of the city.

They sample Valencia's seafood _paella_ and _horchata_ at a seaside restaurant, and Arthur tucks into their meal, covering his mouth with wide eyes as he chews.

"Oh, my God," he says, muffled by a mouthful of shrimp, rice, and vegetables.

"Don't talk with your mouth open," Eames teases.

Ignoring him, Arthur swallows his food and gestures to the bowl in front of him. "This is delicious," he says with conviction. "Have you- Did you try yours? Jesus."

Eames humors him and sets down his _horchata_. He spoons some of his own _paella_ into his mouth, and slow-simmered flavor overtakes his senses. "Bloody hell," he says, staring at the dish. "That _is_ tasty."

Arthur grins at him before ducking his head to take another bite.

*

The following day, they wander the Roman ruins peppered along the seaside. Back on the yacht, Eames jokes, "Darling, wouldn't I make a splendid gladiator?"

Arthur's face shifts from smirking amusement to thoughtful seriousness. After a pause, he drops to his knees, and slides his hands along Eames's thighs. "You fought valiantly today," he says, voice gravelly, "let me reward your victory." He tugs Eames's shorts to his ankles, and Eames makes an undignified sound in his throat as Arthur swallows him down.

*

For their next adventure, they leave the ship at the dock and spend three days in Barcelona, staying the night at Eames's flat.

When Eames unlocks the front door, he heads in and quietly thanks his past self for tidying up the last time he was here.

Glancing back at Arthur, who's hovering in the doorway, Eames blinks at him and says, "Come on in, darling. Are you a vampire? Do you need to be invited in?" He smiles, teasing, then opens a few windows to let in the light and the seaside breeze.

"I've never been here," Arthur says softly, and Eames pauses, looking at him. Arthur swallows and looks him in the eye. "I've never been to a lot of your places."

Eames goes to him and takes his hand, kissing it gently. He twists the ring on Arthur's finger. "They're all yours now, too," he says beside his ear, and Arthur exhales shakily, taking his first steps inside their flat.

*

After Barcelona, they dock in Leucate Plage in France, just north of Perpignan. Atop the sun deck, Arthur holds up the sunscreen with raised eyebrows, and Eames takes it from him and wets his lips.

"Allow me," he says lowly, and he guides Arthur to lie face-down on a lounge chair before straddling his thighs. Arthur comfortably tucks his arms under his head and watches him.

Eames starts at his shoulderblades and works his way down, smoothing white sunscreen over Arthur's skin. He leans forward and kisses under Arthur's ear before dabbing the cream where his mouth had just been. Arthur laughs, like he's been tickled, and squints at him.

"Really?" he says flatly. "My ears?"

Rubbing the sunblock into his skin outside Arthur's ear and along the curved ridge of it, Eames grins and teases, "Well, they burn first on you, my love. Probably because they're so close to the sun." He tucks his hands under Arthur's ears and pushes them out, miming their natural angle out from his head.

Arthur reaches back and smacks his arm, harmless and laughing. "Asshole," he says without heat, grinning, and Eames kisses the back of his head before returning to Arthur's arms. He takes his time, covering Arthur's back and sides with sunscreen, smoothing it in with eager hands. He rolls the waistband of Arthur's trunks down an inch to spread sunscreen there, then replaces the band and lightly pats Arthur on his pert little arse. Next, he goes down each of Arthur's legs with a palm-full of sunscreen, praises his thighs, calves, and feet with his hands. "Turn over?" he implores, and Arthur does, folding his arms under his head and smiling, perfectly at ease.

"Do I get to cover you in white stuff next?" he asks with a smirk, and Eames guffaws as he squirts sunblock on Arthur's chest, making a messy heart with the white cream.

"It wouldn't be fair if you didn't," he says gleefully, and the thought of Arthur's hands all over him has him working a little faster.

Finally, they switch places; after stripping off his shirt, Eames lies on his stomach and Arthur straddles his thighs. Shutting his eyes, Eames smiles and hums in his throat, his skin tingling as Arthur's fingers dig into his back. Cold sunblock hits his warm skin, and Eames lets out a breathy laugh, only relaxing when Arthur's hands spread the cream over him evenly. Those same considerate hands squeeze Eames's biceps and move down his forearms with a firm but careful touch. Eames feels warm palms along his back as they trace the ridge of his spine and the hard planes of his sides. Eames sighs when those hands caress the curve of his lower back before moving down to his legs.

"That feels _amazing_ ," he groans, and Arthur pats his foot.

"I know," he says smugly before climbing off. "Turn around."

Eames does, smiling as Arthur gracefully sits back down, his knees on either side of Eames's hips. He lowers his minxy little bum on Eames's lap and deposits some more sunblock in his hand. As Arthur covers his chest, Eames reaches up and grips his arse, making a pleased sound like a purr in his throat. He slides his hands into Arthur's trunks and takes his bare cheeks in hand, grinning.

"The beach is _right there_ ," Arthur reprimands, gesturing with a flick of his head at his shore. "People could see."

Giving him a devilish smile, Eames says roughly, "Then once you're finished, I'll take you below deck and have you against the sofa." Arthur's lips part, and he exhales too quietly, like he doesn't want Eames to see the way the words affect him. Eames grins and asks, "Sound good?"

Swallowing, Arthur nods and says thickly, "Yeah."

*

At the beach, Arthur takes a full minute to realize something is strange. His head whips about back and forth while Eames sets up a blanket and umbrella for them on the stunning sand.

"Eames," he says, controlled and careful, "is this a nude beach?"

A half dozen joggers in only socks and running shoes goes past them, cocks swinging this way and that; about forty yards away, a bunch of completely nude ladies play beach volleyball, breasts and bums bouncing.

Eames grins at him, straightening up and placing his hands at his waist. "Technically," he says, exaggerating a mysterious tone, "it's a 'clothing optional' beach."

Arthur raises one eyebrow, glances around them one more time, then shrugs his shoulders. "When in Rome," he says wistfully, and he slips off his trunks in one smooth motion before sitting and getting comfortable on the towel; Eames's jaw sort of hits the ground, and Arthur smirks without looking at him. "Looks like I'll need some more sunscreen," he says cheekily.

Clearing his throat, Eames snaps his mouth shut and straightens up. "I certainly can't be shown up," he says, his tone pitching up a bit, and he shrugs off his own shirt before sliding off his cargo shorts.

His husband fixes him with a quintessential Arthurian expression, his eyebrows raised up until they almost disappear into his hairline and his mouth open just enough for Eames to know it must be dry. His dark eyes go darker as they skim Eames's bare skin, tracing dark ink with his gaze, and Arthur's Adam's apple bobs subtly as he swallows.

Eames smiles at him, only barely attempting innocence. "Want to go for a swim, Mister Eames?" he asks at last.

Arthur's face transforms as he absolutely _lights up_ , his mouth spreading in a wide smile and his eyes squinting as he dimples. His nose even wrinkles, and Eames sees more of his teeth than he ever has. "I would love to, Mister Eames," Arthur says lowly, gleefully, and Eames takes his hand to lead him to the warm water.

*

That night, after they thoroughly wash each other of sand and sunblock, they relax in the master bedroom, Arthur lying half on top of him with a warm, kittenish smile.

"So what should we name her?" he asks suddenly, gesturing with a flick of his head at the ship all around them.

Eames hums, musing and looking at the ceiling. He takes another moment before grinning and saying, "Why, what else? 'Darling,' of course."

Arthur laughs and says, "I would hate to have competition with a fucking boat."

Sighing dramatically, Eames shuts his eyes and laments, "I suppose I'll keep thinking, then."

Arthur's mouth pecks his stubbled cheek, and Eames turns his head to capture his soft lips in a proper kiss.

*

In Nimes, France, they enjoy some more Roman ruins; those Romans really got around, apparently. Eames winds an arm around Arthur's waist and smiles as his husband speaks flawless French to shopkeepers and locals. Later, on the yacht, Eames kisses him and growls, "Speak French, darling, the whole bloody night."

Eames rails into him, and Arthur groans, " _M-merde, mon amour_." Eames's breath sighs out of him and he snaps his hips harder, faster. Arthur throws his head back onto their pillows and moans, " _J'ai besoin, s'il vous plaît._ "

With no bloody idea what he's saying, Eames grunts and fucks him harder, muttering, "So fucking hot, darling."

In Marseille, they have _bouillabaisse_ and Arthur hums the national anthem of France under his breath as they eat. When Eames tilts his head at him, Arthur smirks and says that the song, _La Marseillaise_ , is named for the city they're currently dining in. Following lunch, they admire the lovely Church of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde.

"Next time I design a level," Arthur says with an admiring smile, "remind me to use that tower." He nods at the tallest tower of the building, and Eames squeezes his hand.

"Noted, pet."

They end their trip along the Italian coast, briefly visiting the Cinque Terre for a scenic hike as well as Genoa for a couple plates of authentic _pesto_. They always return to the yacht, though, where Eames lays his husband down on their master bedroom and kisses him, long and sweet.

"Did you enjoy our honeymoon?" Eames asks between wet kisses.

Beaming and dimpling, Arthur tugs off their shirts. "It's not over yet," he says roughly, and Eames grins back at him.

"Oh, darling," he murmurs, stroking Arthur's sides and pulling off their pants. "Where did you put the lube?" he asks, suddenly urgent.

Arthur rolls onto his stomach to reach into a bedside table, and Eames grabs for his bare arse, massaging his perfect cheeks and leaning down to nibble at a dimple in the middle of his bum. "Arthur," he says excitedly, "you have dimples down here, too!"

With a smirk, Arthur passes the lube to him, and says, "Hey, Eames?"

Eames squirts lube into his palm. "Hm?"

Arthur spreads his knees and pushes his arse in the air. "Shut up and finger me."

Wetting his lips, Eames nods and leans over him. "Whatever you say, my sweet," he says, husky and dribbling more lube between Arthur's cheeks.

Eames spreads him open with thick fingers, and Arthur gasps and groans, pushing back against him. He shudders, his breath hitching, when Eames stuffs him with four fingers. "Fuck me," Arthur says at last, nearly whimpers it, "c'mon." His voice breaks, and he swallows. "Please." He says it so softly, Eames hardly hears it.

Lightning fast, Eames lubes up his cock and takes Arthur's hips in hand, thrusting himself deep inside his gorgeous husband. "So tight," Eames grunts, and Arthur makes a small, desperate noise like a whine.

" _God_ ," he sobs as Eames bottoms out, and Eames strokes long lines over his back, admiring the way Arthur's muscles tense and jump under his touch. Arthur shifts beneath him, spreads his knees an inch farther and shoves the pillows off the bed to push his face against the mattress. His chest pressed to the bed and his arse up, he's a fine curve, and he lets out a guttural sound, holding still. "Just- there, like that," he pants, and Eames pulls out slowly, thrusting back in with a grunt; Arthur cries out, just shy of that heart-wrenching scream unique to him and his pain. Here, though, he curls his fingers in the sheets and withers with pleasure.

Eames fucks him slow and deep, Arthur clenching and wet around his cock, and he moves his hands along Arthur's back and shoulders, mapping his body for the thousandth time. "So hot, darling," he says roughly, reaching blindly for Arthur's chest, and he pinches the first nipple he finds.

Arthur exhales raggedly, " _Fuck_." He doesn't protest the glacial pace, rocking his hips back onto Eames's cock to meet him. "C'mere," he gasps between thrusts.

Leaning over him, Eames holds one of his shoulders for leverage and moves his other hand down, gripping Arthur's leaking erection in a tight fist. Arthur shudders and nearly collapses against the mattress, a moan breaking over his lips. "Eames," he says, soft and needy, " _please_."

Mouth dry, Eames snaps his hips faster, jerking Arthur's cock at the same quickening pace. Grunting with every thrust, Eames feels his own orgasm building in the pit of his stomach; pleasure rockets through him to the tips of his fingers and toes, goosebumps pebbling his skin as Arthur gasps and keens under him. Eames cards his fingers through Arthur's hair, pushing it away from his face to see his flushed cheeks and the wetness sticking to his lashes. Arthur won't close his mouth as he moans and moans, endless sounds leaving him as he squirms against Eames's cock. Dark eyes flicker up to meet his, and Arthur wets his lips, eyes half-lidded and heavy.

"You're a vision," Eames manages, and he thrusts harder and faster, wet sounds filling the room as Eames strokes Arthur's cock.

Arthur doesn't reply, just arches his back as his eyes shut. His mouth widens in a silent scream, then he suddenly comes, shaking all over and gasping through his orgasm. Eames milks him, feels his come dribbling over his fingers. As Arthur hits his peak, his tight heat clamps around Eames's cock, and Eames's hips stutter still at that, his own orgasm slamming into him. The heat in his body flares up all over, makes him rigid as he comes inside Arthur. Fleetingly, he realizes that he forgot a condom, and the thought of filling Arthur up with his come leaves him shuddering and gasping, fingers digging bruises into Arthur's shoulder and hip.

Slowly, he comes down, breathing loudly through his mouth as he pulls out and falls onto the bed beside Arthur. With a groan, Arthur shifts and curls against him, their legs tangling as Arthur's arm winds tightly around his chest. Arthur props his head on Eames's shoulder, his husband's warm breath ghosting his skin. Eames shivers with a smile, sensitive all over. They lie in silence for a long time, and Eames eventually feels something wet sliding down his thigh. "Oh," he says, apologetic, "Arthur, let me clean you up." He sits up, but with a hand on his chest, Arthur guides him back down.

"Leave it," he sighs, exhausted, "don't care."

For a moment, Eames just stares at him before carefully lowering himself back down. He strokes Arthur's hair and says happily, "Whatever you say, my love."

Another comfortable silence falls between them, the waves gently rocking the boat under them. Eames is nodding off when Arthur murmurs, "We should name her 'Lucie.'" Eames shakes himself awake as Arthur looks at him, warm and open. "For our first job," he clarifies, whisky eyes fond and faraway with the memory.

A drowsy grin stretching his mouth, Eames kisses his forehead and tucks him back against his side. "That's perfect, Mister Eames," he says softly, and he feels more than hears Arthur's giddy little laugh.

"Thank you," he says modestly. "Now go to sleep, Mister Eames." The words transport him to a familiar hotel, Arthur above him and hooking him to the PASIV when he had no reason to. Arthur's fleeting touch at his wrist, his confident smile. Eames's chest flutters as he shuts his eyes, his husband warm and pliant at his side, and the waves lull him to a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _M-merde, mon amour_. F-fuck, my love.
> 
>  _J'ai besoin, s'il vous plaît._ I need more, please.
> 
> If the translations aren't accurate, it's because Google Translate didn't help a bro out. :(


	31. gaming 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's seen Arthur mow down projections with a fucking _weed-whacker_ at a hardware store. Only three months ago, when a grenade breached his and Arthur's little nook in a bank dreamscape, Eames yelled at him to get down. Instead, Arthur had _the balls_ to pick up the grenade and throw it back in a perfect arc, the explosion rocking the building as Eames gaped at him. Another time, he could only cringe as Arthur broke his own hand with a muffled scream to escape hand-cuffs because they were _inconvenient_. He actually said, _I'll be fine, Eames, it's just a dream,_ as he pulled a hatchet from bloody nowhere and told Eames pull his cuffs taut and hold still, lest the _both_ of them spend the rest of the job with mangled hands.
> 
> Despite all that though, here he was: Arthur Eames-Levine, absolute _killing_ machine, pelvic thrusting in time with the music, his body undulating smoothly with the dance moves and his face pinching adorably with concentration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For mykmyk, who commented on every single chapter and supported me all along the way. ♥

Their coffee table pushed to the side, Eames stands in the middle of their living room and swings one arm wildly at the television. Although he got past the main menu with the controller, the game itself prefers hand-free use. "Bloody fuckin' Kinect," he says under his breath.

Beside him, Arthur reaches out and stills his arm with a raised eyebrow. "Here," he says, moving Eames's arm in a way that the game recognizes, "like this." The system, apparently pleased now, goes into the next menu, and Eames pouts at the long list of songs.

"It's partial to you," he whines, and Arthur smiles, warm and mysterious.

"It must know you hate it," he teases, then he gestures at the screen. "Now pick a song."

Eames sighs and uses a carefully-placed hand in the air to scroll through each song and the accompanying dance. If he pauses on a selection, the song begins as a sort of preview, showing the dance in a small screen. Under every song, Arthur's name boasts five stars. Eames huffs, "You know all of these, don't you?"

"Pretty much," Arthur says smugly. "I use it as a warm-up sometimes."

Pouting some more, Eames keeps searching, only pausing on songs he knows or has heard on the radio. Out of his peripheral vision, he watches Arthur, waiting for some kind of tell that Arthur wants the song Eames has stopped at. On one, Arthur moves to stand in front of him but still to the side, as if readying to dance already. Eames quickly chooses that one, apparently called "Super Bass."

After a loading screen and the game registers the two of them, the song begins, a pop and synthesizer sort of beat bursting from the speakers. The character, their dancing guide, stands in the middle with her hands on her hips, and Arthur immediately mimics her. Eames stares at him, suddenly noticing that he's wearing gym shorts and a plain tee. _Oh, God_ , Eames thinks, wide-eyed, _he's going to murder me with that arse._

As a girl starts rapping something about a car stereo maybe, the dancer on screen bobs along to the beat, and _Arthur does it, too_ , even though there are no little figures in the bottom right corner to indicate they need to be dancing. Eames's chest sort of flutters; Arthur is being _cute_. Eames is trying so hard not to giggle or something else undignified that he doesn't realize he's supposed to be dancing until Arthur starts, and Eames clumsily catches up with him, barely a beat slower. Arthur nails 'Perfect' after 'Perfect' scores, and Eames gets 'Good' or 'Okay,' but that's _fine_ , because Arthur is reaching up with one arm and sensually sliding his past his head, over his neck, down his chest, all the way to his hip.

And then, _Good holy God_ , Arthur shakes his hips, not messy and uncoordinated, but smooth and with _finesse_. He has rhythm, he's always had it, but Eames has never seen it set to a pop song, not to something like this. With all his usual seriousness, Arthur girlishly kicks one leg up at the bridge of the song, and Eames has to cough to keep from laughing.

He's seen Arthur mow down projections with a fucking _weed-whacker_ at a hardware store. Only three months ago, when a grenade breached his and Arthur's little nook in a bank dreamscape, Eames yelled at him to get down. Instead, Arthur had _the balls_ to pick up the grenade and throw it back in a perfect arc, the explosion rocking the building as Eames gaped at him. Another time, he could only cringe as Arthur _broke his own hand_ with a muffled scream to escape hand-cuffs because they were _inconvenient_. He actually said, _I'll be fine, Eames, it's just a dream,_ as he pulled a hatchet from bloody nowhere and told Eames to pull his cuffs taut and hold still, lest the _both_ of them spend the rest of the job with mangled hands.

Despite all that though, here he was: Arthur Eames-Levine, absolute _killing_ machine, pelvic thrusting in time with the music, his body undulating smoothly with the dance moves and his face pinching adorably with concentration.

Eames stops dancing altogether and slowly backs up, lowering himself onto the sofa and spreading his arms over the top of it to watch his beautiful, talented, dangerous husband with a pleased smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you know what you should watch? JGL lip synching/dancing to [Superbass](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4ajQ-foj2Q).
> 
> If you've got time, watch the whole thing because it's amazing. But if you're just here for the ass-shaking, jump to 8:05.
> 
> Oh, and here's the Just Dance [routine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A63EuKeYP9k), if you're curious.


	32. family dinner 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur regrets not doing any research on Mrs. Margaret Eames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Afternoon_June, my Junebug, who happily listens to every single chapter before I post it so I can catch my typos. Thank you, darling! ♥

Arthur straightens his tie and pulls his hand away from Eames's thigh as he pulls their car into a long driveway. Eames brakes in front of a wrought iron gate and leans out to address a security guard. Arthur stares because, what the fuck, what kind of person hires actual security detail for their _house_? Why not an alarm system? At last, the guard disappears into a little building beside the road, and the gate slides open.

"Where are we," Arthur mutters, "Buckingham Palace?"

Eames huffs a mirthless laugh. "More or less," he says darkly, and his knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel.

Arthur stares at him and asks quietly, "When was the last time you were here?"

His mouth pursing tightly, Eames exhales, a moment of silence between them before he says, "Years." He won't look at Arthur, keeping his gaze on the mansion rising in front of them. There's a _fountain_ in front of the house, a circular driveway around it, and a straight-backed butler stands at the bottom of the steps, solemnly waiting for them.

"Did you leave on good or bad terms?" Arthur asks cautiously, and Eames doesn't answer, parking in front of the main entrance. He shuts the car off, and before he gets out, Arthur reaches over and squeezes his hand. "Hey," he says firmly, "whatever happened then or happens now, I'm with you."

Eames looks at their hands and attempts a smile, his brows furrowed. "Okay," he says softly, giving a grateful but serious nod. Arthur tips head in return, and they leave the car together.

At the front steps, the butler opens his arm towards the double doors. "Mrs. Margaret Eames is ready for you in the dining hall," he says crisply, and Arthur feels Eames tense beside him.

"Thank you," Eames says thickly, "I believe I know the way." He steps through the threshold of the enormous house with the slightest hesitation, but Arthur catches it. He stays just behind Eames and to the side, flanking him as if he's going to need to protect Eames from his own mother. Eames pauses in one doorway, and Arthur steps up beside him. Inside the room, a long dining table is fully dressed for three people, and at the far end of the table, sits an elegant woman with her thin lips pursed in a smile.

"Thomas," she says, possibly with warmth but Arthur can't read her, "please, sit down. I've been _dying_ to meet Arthur."

Arthur feels a tense line form in his shoulders, and he swallows as he and Eames approach her. If Eames hasn't seen her in years, how could she know about them? Arthur glances at Eames, but he's gone suddenly quiet, not giving Arthur any explanation or even indicating that he's entirely present. Without a word, Eames pecks her cheek and sits on her right; Arthur sits across from him, to her left. "Mrs. Eames," he says with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "it's a pleasure."

Her gray-blue eyes, so like Eames's, wrinkle at the corners. "Likewise," she says curtly, and she somehow manages to make a polite smile look impassive. She delicately takes her linen napkin and sets it on her lap, and Eames and Arthur mimic her lead.

A handful of butlers bustle into the room, carrying covered dishes and setting them down in front of the three of them. Simultaneously, the servants remove the metal covers, and steam coils up from petite bowls of thick, orange soup. Arthur follows Eames as he picks up his spoon, enjoying the first course with one hand clenched tightly in the cream-colored napkin on his lap. He's so tense he barely registers the soup is a luxurious butternut squash.

"So, Arthur," Margaret says conversationally, "how is your mother? Still living in Los Angeles?" Arthur goes still, feeling like his stomach bottoms out as Eames's mother smiles serenely at him. A million thoughts race through his head. How did she know his _mother's address_? Was Margaret Eames _threatening_ his mom? Did she know all of _his_ properties? "The house is truly lovely," she continues, breaking his train of thought. Although the words seem genuine, Arthur discreetly glances at Eames, who's staring at his soup like he's nine-years-old all over again.

Arthur smiles at Margaret, forces it. _This is Eames's mother_ , he tells himself, _not a mobster. She's just trying to freak you out._ "My mother is wonderful, thank you for asking," he says with perfect manners, voice even.

"Oh, that's good to hear," she says, and she finishes her soup.

The second course is a rustic take on pork chops and applesauce. "I believe this dish is a take on an American invention, is it not?" Margaret asks the table.

"I believe so," Eames says immediately, still not looking at them, and Arthur stares at this hunched over alien creature with furrowed brows.

"Eames," he says, and Eames looks up at him, sharp and dark, but Arthur pushes on. "You okay?"

Eames holds his gaze for a long moment before looking down and cutting up his meat. "Yes," he says at last, "thank you, Arthur."

Arthur purses his lips and looks between the two of them, son and mother both attentive to their plates. "Mrs. Eames," he says after a pause, "is there something specific you wanted to ask me? Say to me?"

He feels more than sees Eames's acidic glare, but he keeps his gaze on Margaret, solid and intense. She raises one thin eyebrow at him before slowly leaning back in her seat, her hands in her lap. "Arthur Levine," she says airily, "everything I know about you, I've had to learn on my own. My son hasn't called or written or _anything_ , so forgive me if I seem to be taking that out on you."

"Mother," Eames says, his fists clenched tightly around his utensils, "please don't speak as if I'm not here. And _please_ refrain from accessing bloody MI6 databases to learn about my loved ones." Arthur's stomach twists, and he effortlessly imagines Margaret with a sniper rifle tucked under her chin.

Beside him, she purses her lips and turns her cold gaze onto her son. "I wouldn't have to do that, _Thomas Laurence Eames_ ," she says lowly, losing her carefully-crafted veneer, "if you would _call me_ every once in a while."

"So that you can make me feel like a piece of shit for leaving?" Eames demands, and Arthur feels his chest clenching as they bicker back and forth. He has the sudden urge to leave the room, to let them talk it out, but then he remembers that he _literally_ told Eames he would be there for him. What kind of asshole starts a fight like this and then just abandons it?

Arthur sets his napkin beside his plate and sits at the edge of his chair, his gaze flicking between the two of them. He sits up straight and clears his throat, cutting in, "Hey, Jesus, sorry." Margaret and Eames both clamp their mouths shut and look at anything but Arthur. "Do you want us to go, Mrs. Eames?" Arthur asks honestly. "Because I would understand. I didn't mean to upset you." He glances at Eames. "Either of you."

Both Eames and Margaret sigh quietly, the tension leaking out of them. Margaret folds her hands on the tabletop and Eames props his elbows there, the both of them frowning delicately. Margaret looks between them both, serious and quiet, before she reaches over and touches their arms. "I don't want you to leave," she says just above a murmur, her head tilted to the side, and she looks soft around the edges now. She turns her attention to Eames and brushes her thumb over his hand. "I love you, darling, you know that," she says, her voice scratchy with emotion, "and I _miss you_. I wish you hadn't..." Eames's shoulders bunch up, and she stops herself, inhales and exhales. "Sorry, Thomas," she whispers, "I'm sorry you felt the need to leave, but I'm glad you're here." She smiles, small and sweet.

Eames relaxes, and his eyes soften on her. "I love you, Mum," he says gently. "I'm sorry I hurt you when I left." _But not for leaving,_ Arthur reads in the way his free hand twitches.

Margaret nods, her eyes wet, and she briefly glances up as if to fight tears. A moment later, when she's gathered herself, she laughs helplessly and looks at Arthur. "This is turning into quite the spectacle, isn't it?" she says. "I'm so sorry, Arthur. I didn't mean it to be like this."

Arthur squeezes her hand and reaches over the table to takes Eames's free hand as well. "Listen, it's fine, I'm- I've seen worse," he half-laughs. "Let's just- finish the meal?"

The other two nod, and after a final squeeze of their hands, Arthur withdraws to pick up his utensils. The three of them eat more comfortably, Margaret asking honest questions about Arthur without implying she already knows everything about him.

The following three dinners that they attend at Margaret's home, Eames hesitates less and less at the doorway. At the forth dinner, Arthur deadpans a joke over bread pudding and Eames explodes with laughter, loud and boisterous; Margaret even huffs under her breath with a smile, her own version of a giggle. His elbows on the table, Arthur smiles whole-heartedly, the room light and airy with their glee.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, hey, I have a [tumblr](http://sillybuttmimi.tumblr.com/) now, if you're interested in that sort of thing.


End file.
